


The Taming

by BlueSimplicity



Series: You Are Responsible For What You Tame [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Angst and Humor, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Bucky Barnes, Bucky Barnes After Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Recovering, Canon Divergence - Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Flashbacks, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Home Improvement, Lets Just Pretend Everything After The Winter Soldier Didn't Happen, M/M, Memory Loss, Pining, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Slash, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Recovery, Sam Wilson Is a Good Bro, Steve Rogers & Sam Wilson Friendship, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-26
Updated: 2018-09-19
Packaged: 2019-05-13 23:19:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 35
Words: 105,715
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14758185
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlueSimplicity/pseuds/BlueSimplicity
Summary: Bucky Barnes has finally come home.A year and a half after the events on the helicarriers, desperate for a safe haven and a chance to finally rest, Bucky takes Steve at his word and returns to the dilapidated row house in Brooklyn where he and Steve once lived.Room by room, he slowly starts to fix up the house as he works on his own recovery, while Steve starts to circle closer and closer. It's not easy; it was never going to be easy, and as Steve and Bucky draw even closer to each other in their dance, there are new steps to learn and old wounds to heal.But nothing has ever been able to stop these two boys from Brooklyn, and as they start to share food, trips to Home Depot, late night runs and eventually laughter, it turns out that Bucky isn't the only one who needs help healing.That's only if Steve can get Bucky to believe in himself and the life they have started to build together, and convince Bucky to stay.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is dedicated to my fur baby Mina, who I lost two months ago. I wrote most of this with her curled up at my feet, and the story would not have been the same without her. She was a tiny cat with a tiger's heart, and I miss her every single time I turn my laptop on. 
> 
> ***
> 
> The story is complete at this point, and I will post a new chapter at least once (maybe twice) a week.
> 
> ***
> 
> Beta'd by the AMAZING Merry_rf. She's graciously dedicated so much time and effort in helping to whip this story into shape and she deserves all the good things. **hugs**
> 
> ***
> 
> Lastly, this is Part Two of the You Are Responsible For What You Tame series. You don't need to read the first part to understand everything going on in this story, but it would probably help.

**The Taming**

**Prologue**

_“And then, look! You see the wheat fields over there? I don’t eat bread. For me wheat is of no use whatsoever. Wheat fields say nothing to me. Which is sad. But you have hair the color of gold. So it will be wonderful once you’ve tamed me! The wheat, which is golden, will remind me of you. And I’ll love the sound of the wind in the wheat…”_

Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince

 

“Hello?” Steve said, as he answered his phone, not checking the screen before accepting the call.

 

“Hello? Is this Mister Captain Rogers?” The voice was older, female and had a heavy Spanish accent.

 

“Yes, this is he,” Steve said, turning away from the game of hoops he was playing with Sam and Clint in Stark’s gym, flipping the brim of his Brooklyn Dodger’s baseball cap around. “Can I help you?”

 

“Oh good,” the voice sighed. “Mister Captain Rogers, this is Rosario Lopez from Brooklyn.”

 

“Oh yes, hi Senora Lopez.” Steve paused in his steps toward the bench, where his water bottle was resting. “Is everything all right?”

 

“Si Captain, everything is fine, thank you,” Rosario said. “But I am calling because I have been watching your house, across the street, just like you asked. And your friend, the one you mentioned, I think he is living there.”

 

***

 

_Dear Bucky,_

_If you are reading this, I can’t tell you how happy I am that you’re here. I’m sorry the place isn’t in better condition. I didn’t get a chance to do everything I wanted before other things pulled me away. But I hope the bedroom is good enough for you to be comfortable, and you should have plenty of heat and hot water. Don’t worry about the bills, those are being taken care of._

_The house, and everything inside of it, is yours. And I promise you Bucky, you’re safe here. No one will bother you. The kitchen is stocked, and I’ve set up a food delivery service. Don’t worry, they’re not going to come in. They’re just going to leave the food in the lock box outside the front door – the key is on the kitchen counter, next to the coffee maker. (Do you still love coffee, Bucky? You used to bitch like a wet cat if you didn’t get your coffee first thing.) If there’s anything specific you want, just mark it on the order sheet, put it back in the box, and it will be there with the next order._

_It’s your home Bucky, and I hope that you’ll be comfortable there. But if there’s anything you want or need, please let me know. I’m not going to bother you, like I promised. But I really hope that one day maybe you’ll invite me for a cup of coffee, so that we can shoot the shit just like we used to. I miss you Bucky, and if there’s anything I want, it’s for you to be OK._

_Call me anytime Buck. Anytime. I would really love to hear from you._

_Always your friend,_

_Steve Rogers_

_ 347-555-0704_


	2. Chapter 2

He slept for over a month, dreamless, dark and deep. Or at least it felt that way when he finally opened his eyes to a room that was warm and clean, with golden yellow walls and white trim. He was in a soft bed, softer than any he could ever remember sleeping in before, and covered in blankets that smelled of soap and vanilla and sunshine. It took him less than a second to remember why this was strange, before he was sitting bolt upright, a gun in his hand, looking around the room, searching for any threat.

 

But there was none. Or at least there wasn’t one he could sense as he studied the room and tilted his head, listening for any sounds from outside that would indicate an intruder. Nothing. And if there was an intruder in here, it was him.

 

His internal chronometer was off, and he had no idea of how long he had been sleeping, but apparently his bladder still worked. It was at its urging that he pulled his sneakers on, rose from the bed and went in search of a bathroom.

 

It was behind the door directly across the hallway from the room he had been staying in.  It was a good size, with a toilet, sink and claw-footed bathtub in the corner. But it was old. There were octagonal white tiles on the floor, chipped in some places, cracked in others. There were water and rust stains in the sink, that he somehow knew no amount of scrubbing would get rid of. The toilet connected directly to the water pipes and not a tank. The sink had separate taps for hot and cold water, and the fixtures were rusty from both time and disuse. But the bathroom had been cleaned thoroughly, and smelled fresh despite the signs of age. The water ran strong and true, which he discovered after a piss when he held his hands beneath the icy cold stream. And it was well stocked. Towels hung from a bar on the back wall. A tooth brush stood in its packaging besides a sealed box of unopened toothpaste next a cup on the sink. There was plenty of toilet paper, and in the medicine cabinet he found razors, a red and white can of shaving cream, lotion, deodorant, a bottle of aspirin, bandages, four bars of Ivory soap, a tiny pair of scissors, a nail trimmer, and a box of cotton swabs, all of it in its original packaging, still sealed, waiting to be used. The why of it he didn’t consider, just put the tooth brush and paste to its intended use.

 

Once done, still too tired to do anything else, he returned to the room, and pulled out two protein bars, three granolas bars and a bottle of Gatorade, which he quickly consumed, before he kicked off his shoes, laid down, and fell asleep once more.

 

***

 

His body told him that 26 hours had passed when he next woke, more alert and aware of his surroundings, but still with a gun in his hand. He wasn’t as tired this time, his sleep once again dreamless and deep. There was something about the room, the house, and the way it creaked and groaned as it settled in the night, that echoed from within as familiar, and that made him comfortable in a way he was unaccustomed to.

 

He put the gun down, rubbed the grit from his eyes and took another look around. It was time to take stock of his surroundings. He was hungry, he was always hungry, but that could wait. He had been remiss in his safety measures, and it was time to ascertain the building’s security.

 

Another quick trip to the bathroom, and then back into the bedroom, to his bag, where he pulled out the scanner he had stolen from the HYRDA base in DC. He had stolen a lot of equipment from the base, as he stepped over blood and bone and brain matter, and even more items and cash from a nearby abandoned safe house. Each item was carefully catalogued, maintained and then modified to be untraceable, including his arm from which he had removed four tracking devices (they didn’t think he knew about the third, and he was certain they didn’t think he would have been able to find the fourth. But… Dr. Brubaker had squealed like a little piggy after just the first stiletto through his wrist). They may have thought of him as their mindless weapon, but a weapon was only as good as its specifics, and they had always wanted him to be the deadliest tool in their arsenal. They wanted him to be able to process, to calculate and adapt to even the most minute of changes in a situation. They just hadn’t wanted him to be able to think on his own.

 

 _Well fuck you, motherfuckers,_ he thought as he switched the scanner on and began a slow and thorough sweep of the entire house. He started on the roof, making his way down slowly from floor to floor and into the basement, checking each corner, closet and pipe housing, using both the scanner and his own senses to make sure the place was secure. Two hours and a lot of dust later, he was certain that the place was clean.

 

Back into the butter colored bedroom, where he replaced the scanner in his bag and pulled out his laptop. He carried it down with him into the kitchen, which was just like the rest of the house, old, worn, a bit dusty, but the appliances were all new, and left it on the small and cracked formica table, while he looked in the cabinets for something to eat.

 

For a moment, he was overwhelmed.

 

It wasn’t that there was an overabundance of food; it was as well stocked as the letter had said it would be. And there was nothing in the refrigerator, even though it was on. But the cabinets were filled with cans and jars, all non-perishables, waiting for him to choose. Canned soups, chili and vegetables, crackers, peanut butter (two types) and jelly (six varieties), powdered creamer, cereal, cookies, beans, pasta, rice, pickles, olives, apple sauce, condensed milk, soda, juice, boxed drinks with little tiny straw, so much. So much. Too much.

 

It had him stumbling back. Choice, choice, so much choice.

 

It was still one of the hardest things for him to come to terms with, even all of this time later. That he could have a preference, and make a decision based on that preference. He could eat what he wanted, whenever he wanted. So if he liked McDonalds better than Burger King, and wanted a Quarter Pounder with cheese at three in the morning, he could have one. Chocolate ice cream was better than vanilla, even though he liked that too, but he liked butter pecan even more than that, and he could get it with nuts and syrups and sprinkles and too much choice. It wasn’t being denied food, forced to watch others eat, and then only provided with carefully selected tasteless supplements right before a deployment to ensure peak performance. It was eating because he was hungry, or because he wanted to, or simply because he enjoyed the taste of damned butter pecan ice cream and the feel of nuts crunching beneath his teeth.

 

But it was still a choice, and it still sometimes overwhelmed him. Just like the memories and the fear and the need to run, to get out, to _gogogo_ and never stop.

 

He forced himself to take a deep breath, unclenching his right hand from where it had been grasping the kitchen counter, and stepped back.

 

He could do this. He had done it before. His skin, his self, was tender and raw. But this was a safe place, a place with softness. Steve had promised him that and…

 

_And Stevie had never lied to him._

 

He shook it off, shook it all off, the memories, the fear, ( _the yearning, yearning, yearning_ ), and went back to focusing on the tasks at hand. There were things he had to do before he could settle, protocols to follow before establishing a base, and he had wasted enough time.

 

He looked through the cabinets again. There were plates and bowls of various sizes, and a drawer full of cutlery beneath the kitchen counter. Pots and pans were stored in the oven just like he knew they would be, _and why did that strike him as so familiar_ , and the coffee maker sat next to the stove top, with a small key to the left, just like Steve said it would be. He picked a can of soup, a package of crackers and one of the little boxed drinks and set to making himself a meal.

 

Sitting down at the table, he turned on his laptop and started his research.

 

232 52nd Street, Brooklyn, New York. Owned by the Sarah & Winifred, LLC.

 

That gave him pause, something about it tickling, tickling, tickling in the corners of his mind. But he put it aside, and kept on searching, disabling spyware and using untraceable programs to dig deeper and find more information. The managing member of the LLC was a trust, which was owned by another trust, whose executor was another LLC, through another management company, back, back, back until finally, twelve levels deep ( _not too bad Stevie,_ the thought came to him absently) he found the ultimate executor, Steven Grant Rogers, born 7/04/1917.

 

So the house was secure, and indeed owned by Steven Rogers.

 

Now it was time to do a check of the neighborhood.

 

Nearest neighbor, Teresa Lopez, divorced, employed as a surgical nurse at Lutheran hospital. Three children, Jessica, (flight attendant, living in Georgia), Jorge (police officer, New Jersey), and Melissa (attending Hunter college, studying teaching, still living at home.) Also in residence, Rosario Lopez, mother, widowed, retired school administrator, migrated from El Salvador in 1973. 

 

He checked their phone records and email accounts, banking activity, searching for any connection, however tenuous, to HYDRA. It took him four more hours as he then did the exact same thing for every resident listed as living on that block, and then the next block, and the next, until he had completed a twenty block outward radius check of the row house, ( _and hello, look at what we’ve got here, five blocks west and three south_ ), until he was convinced the area was relatively secure.

 

He had eaten four more bowls of soup during that time, but no more of the little boxed drinks ( _Jesus Christ, those were disgusting_ ), before he powered off the laptop and leaned back in the rickety chair. He was still, perfectly still, as he sat and he pondered and tried to figure out what the hell he was supposed to do next.

 

That proved to be easy and he rose, palmed the key next to the coffee maker, and headed to the door. It was dark out now, late, and he doubted anyone would see him as he stepped outside, although he peered through the grimy windows to check the street before opening the door. He located the lock box, which was more of a trunk than a box, unlocked and then lifted to lid, to reveal a large insulated bag, with a receipt pinned to one of the handles, indicating it was “PAID IN FULL.” He lifted the bag, closed and relocked the box, and went back inside.

 

If the cabinets had been a plethora a choice, the contents of the bag were a cornucopia. The smells that hit him as he unzipped the lid were almost enough to send him stumbling back, even as his hands gripped the edges. It was filled to the brim with food, a treasure chest of selections, all carefully stacked for him to peruse.

 

There was a gallon of fresh milk, a pound of butter, and a dozen eggs (organic, according to the labels), half and half, coffee and cold cuts (salami, two types of ham, capicola, roast beef, sliced turkey and chicken breast, provolone, American and Swiss cheeses). There were breads, bagels, muffins, rolls, plain and onion, and what looked to be a bag of freshly made cookies, next to a tub of brownies. Plastic containers filled with more soup, black bean, chicken, minestrone, corn chowder and mushroom barley according to their labels, which said to heat for three minutes in the microwave before eating. Hot dogs, bacon and sausages, breaded chicken breast and another container of roasted chicken. Two types of mustard, mayonnaise, ketchup, honey. More cereal, hot and cold. Chocolate bars. Fresh orange juice. And fruit, there was tons and tons of fruit, all carefully bundled and separated from the rest by an insulated border. Apples and pears, oranges and bananas, grapes, peaches, plums, blueberries, strawberries, raspberries and kiwi. Enough to feed an entire army.

 

Or a single man who could not remember the last time he hadn’t been hungry.

 

He didn’t know what to do with all of it, with all of this providence and generosity. Except to feel grateful, so damned grateful, that there was food here, enough for him to eat, and sent to him by someone who seemed to care so damned much and wanted nothing in return.

 

He wiped his cheeks with his hands and then looked down at his fingers ( _they were wet, when had they gotten wet?_ ) before he lifted the bag, studying the contents carefully as he removed each piece and tried to find a place to store it, all the while munching on a plum.

 

***

 

That night, after the kitchen had been organized to his satisfaction, he ate an amazing salami and ham sandwich, a bowl of the chicken soup, an apple, two of the bananas, and three of the cookies. Then he did another in person scan of all of the rooms in the row house before making his way back into the bedroom.

 

Instead of looking around the room, he looked down at himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he had showered; he was filthy, grimy, and he didn’t need his enhanced senses to know that he smelled bad. Before it had been something he had just lived with, even though he hated being dirty. He had showered when he could, and wiped himself down in bathrooms when there had been no other choice. But…but he had a full stomach, and was warm, and had options now that he hadn’t had just a week ago. And he wanted a fucking shower and to wash his damn hair.

 

He hesitated a moment longer, before stepping toward the bureau and pulling open the drawers. The clothes were still there, still waiting, still just as soft looking. And they were clean. But he wasn’t quite ready for that, not just yet. This place could feel safe eventually, but he wasn’t sure, and he had been wrong in the past before. He was warm and full, true, but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t have to leave within a second’s notice, and he didn’t want to take something that wasn’t his. So instead he went towards his bag and pulled out the cleanest pair of jeans and sweatshirt that he had. There was a washing machine and dryer in the basement; he could run his clothes through them tomorrow. But for now, these would do.

 

His senses told him no one had been there since his last visit, but he still scanned the room before he turned on the light, kept his gun raised and ready as he checked behind the door, the shower curtain, and the even through the small window. It was all exactly how he had left it. He placed his clothes and pistol on top of the toilet lid, pushed aside the brand new shower curtain, and stepped into the tub.

 

The water heated so quickly it surprised him, and the pressure was glorious as it hit his shoulders in a solid, endless stream ( _steady and even, not the slicing cuts of a hose, scouring his skin clean, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, just stand there and take it or it will be worse, it will be bleach next time, before and after cryo_ ), and washed the sweat and scum from his skin. There was a bar of Ivory soap that he used, a bottle of something that claimed to be body wash that he didn’t, and one of those funny little fuzzy plastic balls he had discovered now replaced washcloths. There was a brush for his fingernails, that he used to clean them as well as the plates on his left arm, and three bottles of shampoo. He used the one that smelled like apple, simply because he liked that scent the best, and then washed his hair once, twice, three times. He stood in the shower for at least an hour, until the water ran clean, and the steady pressure and heat on his back eased some of the constant ache in his left shoulder.

 

When he finally turned the water off and stepped out, the air was thick with steam. It felt nice on his skin, as did the towel ( _soft, so soft_ ) he used to wipe his body down. He slid on his pants and shoes, used the deodorant from the medicine cabinet, and then picked up the razor and can of shaving cream. He stared at it for a moment, deciding that the itch on his jaw and chin felt wrong, and decided to give himself a shave.

 

Ten minutes later, he wiped the steam from the mirror and studied his reflection. The face that stared back at him was lean and pale, although still flushed from the heat. His eyes were blue, his hair dark, and his jaw strong. It was a good face, he thought, or it had been once. And it was becoming familiar to him once again.

 

He continued to stare at himself, turning his face back and forth, examining it under the bright lights. After a few minutes, he decided he liked the face looking back at him.

 

And for the first time in over 74 years, Bucky smiled.

 

***

 

“Hola?”

 

“Hello? Is this Senora Lopez? Senora Lopez, this is Steve Rogers.”

 

“Oh yes, hello Captain Rogers. How are you?”

 

“I’m good, how about you?”

 

“I am doing very good, Captain Rogers. Is there something I can help you with?”

 

“Well, I’m just calling to check in – “

 

“On your friend, si?”

 

“Yeah, Senora Lopez, I am.”

 

“He is still here, Captain Rogers, and he is doing okay I think. I called and had the food delivery set up, just like you asked, and I think it is helping him. He was very skinny when he first showed up, but not so much now.”

 

“Oh good, good, thank you Senora Lopez. That’s…That’s actually great to hear.”

 

“You are very welcome Captain Rogers.”

 

“Is there anything else you’ve noticed?”

 

“Not really, no. He is very quiet, but he makes no trouble. I barely see him, but the light is on, on the third floor, so I know he is there. But he is like a cat that one, very sneaky, very quiet, but watching everything.”

 

“Yeah, yeah he is a bit like that.”

 

“Are you sure you don’t want me to talk to him? He looks very lonely, and a little lost, and I think he could use a friend.”

 

“No Senora, not just yet. He’s been through a rough bit, like I said, and I think he just needs some time to settle down. Let him be. Just keep watching, and let me know if anything changes, okay?”

 

“Si Captain, I will.”

 

“Thank you Senora Lopez. You don’t know how much this means to me that you’re there keeping an eye on him, so, just thank you.”

 

***

 

He needed something to do.

 

Bucky spent three days in the house, sleeping, eating and using the shower ( _aw man, how he loved that thing_ ), before he decided that he needed something to do, or else he would go crazy. _Ha! Crazy_ , he laughed at the thought. But he did.

 

Three days after that first shower, he decided to get back on track and start exploring the neighborhood. It was something that that part of him, that deep, dark, icy part, _the Asset,_ wanted to do. To further ascertain that their situation was secure. And it had helped to keep him alive, keep him free, for this long, and he wouldn’t deny it that.

 

He went and started to walk the streets, getting a sense of the area, of Sunset Park. He walked west, across Third Avenue and underneath the Gowanus Expressway, towards Fourth Avenue, where there was a train line, the R, that he remembered had once been called the 2. He started to explore the shops, bodegas and restaurants, to get a sense of the people around him, their moods and heartbeats.

 

That wasn’t something the Asset was used to. As Bucky listened to the music coming from open windows, and heard the voices of men and women talking to each other and on their phones, he recognized it as something he’d always had a talent for. Scouting nearby blocks growing up, small villages and towns during the war, finding the pulse point had always been something he had been good at, had liked to do. The skill came back to him easily. He didn’t advertise himself, or make his presence memorable in any way. But he knew how to smile at the woman who sold churros and Bustelo from her small shop on Fifth Avenue ( _holy shit, did he love Bustelo_ ), and get a kind smile and warm greeting in return. Or how to ask the old Chinese man who sold the pork buns on Seventh Avenue about his day in Cantonese (and _when the hell did he learn Cantonese? Thanks a fucking lot HYDRA_ ), and find he had an extra bun in his bag. Small steps, but vital ones, that gave him the lay of the land, a sense of this place that maybe, just maybe, was giving him the space to breathe.

 

He did more than that though. He patrolled the streets at night, searching for safe places, dangerous corners, hidey holes and identified any possible sight lines. And he ran, always at a different time, and following a different route, to keep his strength up. The part of him that was the Asset liked that, liked that he kept his guns clean, and maintained his training regimen. It was always there, watchful, assessing, its senses on high alert.

 

But the Asset was different now. Where before it had been the blankness, the precision, and sole intent of a mission, now it curled from a place deep in his gut and held still, waited.

 

As Bucky poked and prodded at the Asset, carefully, not wanting to jar it or stoke it to flame, he found himself coming to a deeper understanding of it. It didn’t want to hunt or kill, although it would, gladly, if it thought it was warranted, and it certainly did not want to serve anymore. But it was there, and it had been trained, and it hungered for something. Maybe its own place.

 

It didn’t seem to hate him, or want to overpower his will. Over the past year and a half, Bucky had discovered that it was more that…it didn’t want to be ignored, cast aside, _frozen_. If he fought it too hard, it shrieked and buzzed and ripped his mind apart, until he would come to, hours, sometimes days later, usually in a dark alleyway covered in his own piss and shit, but with no blood on its hands, of that he had been certain. It just…Didn’t want to be denied.

 

It was a strange thrumming within his own head, his own soul. Bucky, the part of him that had always been Bucky, but he had first become aware of, started to realize was him after that first trip to the Smithsonian – no, after the battle on the helicarrier and the words “ _Cos I’m with you ‘til the end of the line”_ – was tired and weak. It had been left, trapped, suffocating for so long, crippled and mewling in the dark. But it was growing stronger, _he_ was growing stronger, and now he had these two parts of himself, two disparate entities that were circling, spinning, dancing around each other, trying to find a way to match. Both somehow recognizing that the other would not be denied, and that together, if they could just find a way, they would be stronger than if they remained separate.

 

It made his brain throb and itch and burn. But his body had more resources now. Food to nourish, shelter to keep safe, heat to keep warm. He couldn’t stop it, didn’t think he would survive it if he tried, but he could try to shape, to guide, to give it direction. So, he let the Asset train and plot and secure the area, while Bucky studied and observed. And the Asset let Bucky walk the streets, recognize the people, and remember how to charm his way to a stronger cup of coffee and an extra pork bun, while it waited and absorbed. One who had become two now becoming one, and who knew who he would be at the end.

 

But he still needed something to do.

 

As he sat on the floor of the living room, unpacking his own food from its plastic bag that night, tostones and chicken and rice, ( _and choice, oh choice, it was still such a wonderful thing, and he was discovering a deep love of Puerto Rican food_ ), he found himself again looking around at the walls. The row house was huge, too big for a single person really, and until tonight he had been spending most of his time in the kitchen and upstairs bedroom and bathroom. The floors were still dusty and the scent of neglect hung in the air. This had been a good place once, even if it felt lonely now. There were no signs of any roaches or rat droppings, but he knew that wouldn’t last for long if he didn’t do something. And this place, this house, it deserved better than that.

 

And suddenly, Bucky knew what he was going to do next.

 

***

 

“Captain Rogers?”

 

“Hi Senora Lopez. Is everything all right?”

 

“Si, si, everything is fine Captain Rogers.”

 

“Has anything changed?”

 

“No Captain Rogers, nothing has changed. Except your friend, I think he has started to clean your house.”

 

***

 

Two days and three trips to various local supermarkets later, Bucky had all the supplies he thought he would need. In a neat pile in the second bedroom of the third floor sat buckets, containers of bleach and ammonia, brooms, mops, scouring pads, rags, borax, vinegar, lemon polish, a felt duster, a handheld vacuum, sponges, various soaps, a dustbin, and a  box of garbage bags. He completed a predawn run, had a breakfast of eggs, fried ham, sausage, bacon and potatoes, knelt down on the floor and set to work.

 

It took him three weeks. Three weeks of grueling, dirty, sweaty work. There were sixteen rooms total in the row house. Three bedrooms and a bathroom on the third floor, three smaller bedrooms and two bathrooms on the second, a bathroom, kitchen, living and dining room on the first, and two rooms in the basement. There were the stairs that led up to each floor, and the hallway connecting each. He dusted and he vacuumed, scrubbed and then wiped down the walls, scoured the floors, and even washed the fucking windows. He had started on the ground level, only to realize his mistake when after a long day of being on his hands and knees, he had come back down from upstairs and tracked dirt all over the freshly cleaned floor. Cursing, he changed his plan after that and worked from the top down.

 

It was exhausting, but good work. It kept his hands and his body busy (‘ _Ah, Jamie, idle hands are the devil’s workshop,’ a soft, female voice whispered gently in his ear, while calloused but cool fingers stroked his hair_ ) and gave his mind the space and time it needed to continue the process of growing into itself.

 

The rhythm and even-tempo of the work was settling. So much so that it allowed his mind to slip into a fugue, aware of everything around, but with its focus turned inward, to where things had been hiding, cringing from the light. Memories, a shit ton of them, waiting to be found.

 

He had learned by now not to fight them. He had at first, tried to run, to flee from them as he had everything else in those first, few desperate months. Yet they would have their way, and if he fought them too hard, too long, they would send him screaming into the night. But if he tried to chase them, they would dissipate in his hands, thinner than any fog and still just as opaque. There was a way to it, to accept the waves as they came. Sometimes they rose up above him like a tsunami, a maelstrom of screaming demons shrieking in his mind, and sometimes they would come slowly, still deep, but more like ripples that pushed him further and further from the shore. But if he allowed himself to breathe, to trust that he could survive this, then when they left him, and they always left him, he could process what he had been shown.

 

Not that it was easy; it was never easy.

 

Sometimes he would come to, and find himself curled up on his side, sobbing on the floor, the bucket of bleach he had been using spilled, its acrid scent burning his lungs. It was the Asset’s memories that usually left him like that. Blood and guts and the screams of men, women and children, _goddamned fucking children_ , that HYDRA had had him kill when they wanted to make a point. He wondered why he had those memories, when they had wiped him, wiped him every damn time, after every single fucking mission, but there they were, harsh and horrid and making him want to claw his own eyes out.

 

Those would send him running, and he would grab his duffel and flee, running, running, running, just trying to get away.

 

Sometimes for a few days, once for a week. But he always came back to the house, to clean up the mess he had made, eat a sandwich with shaking hands, and then take a long, hot shower. He would sleep, take another shower, eat another meal, and go back to work.

 

Other times, the memories were softer, cleaner, but just as poignant and deeply felt. Of running through the streets of Brooklyn, but never too fast, with a young blond boy ( _Stevie_ ) behind him. Of sitting up in the dark, and cradling a baby in his arms, colicky in the night, rocking her back and forth and back and forth, carefully heating milk at the stove while in the room just beyond a woman and two other young girls tried to sleep. Of a cough, low in the chest, that could pull him from any sleep, no matter how deep, so he could roll over and start patting a back, thin, so thin, but the heart within never frail, to help clear out the mucus. ( _Stevie again._ ) Of a campsite with fellows, friends, brothers-in-arms, sharing a hard found bottle of whiskey, and stories and laughter to keep the desperation of war away.

 

These were Bucky’s memories, his memories, and he hated that they had been lost to him for so long as well. They were easier to get trapped in, and filled with just as many regrets, and he often came to from those to find the entire floor had been scrubbed, his flesh hand blistered and red from his grip on the scrub brush and the chemicals he had used.

 

He would rise and go to the nearest bathroom, running cold water over his hand, watching as the blisters popped, the skin went from bright red to pink, and the cuts, bruises and burns slowly started to heal before his very eyes. Within a few minutes he could flex his fingers, the knuckles swollen and painful, but functional, and getting better with every moment. He had discovered that if he ate something after that, his hand would heal even faster, and within thirty minutes he could go back to work at full functionality.

 

So, memories and dirt, layer upon layer of them, that he peeled away from his mind, just like he peeled them away from the house.

 

It took him three weeks to clean the house. Three grueling, exhausting and dirty weeks. And when he stopped to survey the results, he knew he was nowhere near finished.

 

But the house was clean, and he felt as if the two parts of him had come closer in their dance. Yet there was still more to be done.

 

He took another look around, walking from floor to floor and checking all of the rooms that now smelled of lemon and pine, instead of dust and abandonment, and heaved a sigh.

 

It was still a shithole. That couldn’t be denied. The stairs were crooked and warped. The tiles in not just the upstairs bathroom, but all of the bathrooms, were fucking ugly. There was cracked linoleum in all of the remaining rooms, and fucking red velvet wallpaper in one of the bedrooms on the second floor. But…

 

But…

 

It had good bones.

 

The bannisters were still solid, and he was pretty sure they were made of oak. And he was certain that underneath all of that horrid linoleum, he would find wood flooring that if he scrubbed and buffed and sanded, could maybe be restored to its original gleam. Tile was simple enough to change, and the fixtures in the bathroom could easily be replaced. If nothing else, he could torch the fucking wallpaper in that damned bedroom. He knew that he could do it, although he wasn’t certain how he knew that ( _Come on Jamie lad, come help your da. You’ve got two good hands, and as long as a man has two good hands, he can do good work, and build a thing that lasts. Now watch and learn._ )

 

This house had been good to him, just as it had been before (and he remembered that now too), and it deserved better than to be left in the state it had. It would give him something else to do, work he could continue.

 

And it would be a kindness, and a quiet way to say thank you to Steve, even if he didn’t have the words for it just yet.

 

***

 

“Hola, Captain Rogers. How are you?”

 

“Hello, Senora Lopez. I’m good. And you, everything all right?”

 

“Yes, yes Captain Rogers, everything is fine.”

 

“I’m just calling to -“

 

“Yes, I know, to check on your friend.”

 

“Yeah, yeah I am.”

 

“Well, you don’t have to worry. Everything is fine. He’s still there. He disappears sometimes for a few days, but he always comes back.”

 

“Oh, really?”

 

“Yes, but just for a few days. Don’t worry Captain. He is keeping himself busy.”

 

“Busy?”

 

“Si, Captain Rogers. He has started to fix your house.”

 

“What?”


	3. Chapter 3

Steve waited two months before he decided to visit the old row house he had purchased in Brooklyn. He had been shocked when he found out the building where the tenement apartment he and Bucky had once lived in was on the market, and made a quick offer, outbidding every other interested party so that he was able to obtain the property. He had been planning to hire workers to restore it, make it habitable again, but then he had gotten caught up in SHIELD and HYDRA and the battle on the helicarriers, so there had never been any time. And then, then there had been Bucky, and his desperate, frantic search across the country, so the building had remained unused and empty, almost forgotten, until it seemed as if Fate had stepped in, and told him the reason why he had really ended up owning it.

 

He hadn’t wanted to push Bucky. Wanted to give him space and time. A feeling of safety, with the hope that if Bucky spent enough time there, something would jar his memories, and he would start to remember who he was, who they had been together.

 

But it had been hard to wait. Nerve-wracking and tense. He had nearly collapsed with relief when he received that first phone call from Senora Lopez, telling him that Bucky had read the letter and used the key Steve had left for him. He had JARVIS search for and help him purchase another apartment a few avenues over, so that he could be close by, just in case Bucky needed him, or the neighborhood needed him to protect them from Bucky. But as of yet, it seemed as if Bucky was doing all right. Spending his time cleaning and now fixing the old building, if what Senora Lopez said was true.

 

But it had been two months, two long months, and Steve found he could not wait any longer to see for himself. He just hoped he was doing the right thing, and that by showing up he didn’t scare Bucky away.

 

He got up early the next morning, grabbed a cup of coffee, and headed over to 52nd Street, where he sat himself down on the steps of Senora Lopez’s stoop, and waited.

 

It didn’t take long. Forty minutes later, the door was opening and Bucky stepped out.

 

Steve had to fight not to cry out in relief, because Bucky…Bucky looked good. His hair was shiny and thick, from where it hung from beneath a dark grey baseball cap, its brim pulled low. He was wearing clean clothes, but underneath Steve could tell that he had filled out some. He was still long and lean, the serum would probably never let him gain any extra weight. From what Steve could see with his artist’s gaze, the muscles were sleek and strong, powerful and well maintained. It was obvious he was taking care of himself, eating the food Steve had provided, and using the facilities in the house to keep himself clean.

 

But he was still a predator, and he still had those highly developed preternatural senses, because he stopped as soon as he stepped out and turned to stare at Steve.

 

His light blue eyes locked on Steve’s with that razor’s keenness Steve remembered from Prineville. And he stood still, not frozen, but not with any hesitation, only a sense of patience, of quiet, that could wait forever before it made its next move.

 

 _Too soon, it’s too soon,_ Steve thought as Bucky stared at him, part Bucky, but still so very much the Winter Soldier. _I’m going to spook him, and he’s going to run._

 

But Bucky only continued to stare at him for another long moment, his gaze never wavering, before he turned around, locked the door, pocketed the key and then walked quickly down the steps, where he turned right and made his way down the street.

 

It took Steve a moment to realize that Bucky had actually turned his back on him, before he was scrambling from the stoop and jogging after him. He didn’t call out, but when he did reach the corner, Bucky had long since disappeared into the crowd.

 

***

 

Of course Steve had come, of course he had. Bucky knew that it was going to happen eventually, and that Steve had been exceptionally patient, when patience had never been his strong suit. And he had known that Steven was out there, felt the tremble of it in his bones, the way a wolf knew that something had crossed into its territory.

 

So he hadn’t been surprised when he stepped outside and saw Steve sitting on the stoop across the street. ( _Called him again, did you Rosario?)_

 

It had still jarred him, had still caused the Asset within to perk up and take a definite notice. But this time, there was more curiosity than before, less wariness (and fear) and more of a study. He knew this man, had always known this man, and now there he was, open and without cover, and still as much of an idiot as he had always been. ( _And where the hell had that thought come from?_ )

 

Bucky wasn’t ready. Wasn’t sure that he would ever be ready, even though he knew that his time was running out, and eventually Steve would stop being so patient. But not now, not just yet. He needed more time, just a little more time, when he knew that Steve had already been generous in giving him the time he had, before he would be ready.

 

But not today. He wasn’t ready just yet, and it wouldn’t be today.

 

***

 

Steve gave Bucky two more weeks before he went back.

 

Senora Lopez had assured him that Bucky was still there, that his surprise had not caused Bucky to flee. Steve did not want to spook him, or to make what Bucky was obviously starting to consider his sanctuary feel as if it were threatened. So he forced himself to travel to DC, to spend some time with Sam and visit Peggy, and made his daily visits to Avengers Tower, all the while counting the days in the back of his mind. When he thought enough time had passed, he once again left his apartment early, and with another cup of coffee to warm his hands, perched himself on Senora Lopez’s stoop.

 

Bucky seemed less surprised to see him when he stepped out of the door fifteen minutes later, his hair pulled back beneath an olive green ball cap this time. But he still stopped and he still stared, that sharp blue gaze taking in all of Steve’s details. Except this time, after less than a minute, he nodded his head at Steve before he locked the door behind him, made his way down the stairs, turning left this time, and once again disappearing around the corner before Steve had a chance to catch up.

 

***

 

_Not this time, not this time, no. But maybe, maybe the next._

 

***

 

Steve went back a week later, this time with a cup of tea to help fight off February’s bitter chill. He was out there for less than five minutes and was staring down at the dregs at the bottom of his cup, when the door opened and Bucky stepped out, a navy blue knit cap on his head, and a muted grey scarf around his neck. He saw Steve and nodded, then locked the door before he made his way down to the sidewalk. He turned right, and started walking away, but paused after fifteen steps, looked over his shoulder, and said, in that raspy voice, “You coming?”

 

Steve had never scrambled off of anything as fast as he did those steps, as he rushed after Bucky.

 

Bucky continued to make his way down the sidewalk with a long and smooth gait, deceptively easy going. But it was so familiar to Steve, a stride so well remembered, that his heart ached. His older, smaller body had never been able to match it, but Bucky didn’t need to slow down like he used to, before Steve’s newer body found itself meeting its rhythm. Bucky didn’t alter his pace, but he did make sure to keep about a foot and a half of space between them, his hands in his pockets as he continued down the street.

 

“Hey Bucky,” Steve said softly, after about ten steps.

 

“Hey Steve.” Bucky’s voice was quiet as he answered with a quick glance in Steve’s direction.

 

“How are you doing, Bucky?”

 

Bucky took a few seconds before he answered, “I’m doing okay.”

 

“That’s great. I’m glad to hear it.”

 

Bucky didn’t say anything for a while after that. They had come up on Third Avenue, and he kept glancing at the crosswalk light while looking back and forth, checking for oncoming traffic, while above them the cars on the Gowanus Expressway drove by with a quiet hum.

 

“I wanted to thank you,” Bucky said as the light changed, and with a last glance for traffic he stepped into the street. “For the house, and the food. Everything. It’s helped.”

 

“Anytime Bucky, anytime. I’m just glad…” When Steve didn’t go on, Bucky turned his head to look at him once again. “I’m just really glad that you’re here.” Bucky just shrugged at that, and then stepped up onto the curb, moving around a woman with a stroller. “Is there anything else you need?”

 

“You’ve already done more than enough Steve.” It was kind of Bucky to say, but he knew it wasn’t enough, it would never be enough, when Steve had been the one who hadn’t gone after him, who had let Bucky fall.

 

“Seriously, if there’s anything else, anything you need-“

 

“I’m sure Rosario Lopez will call and let you know.”

 

And there was the check, and the warning. Not to back off, not yet, but enough for Steve to understand, as he met Bucky’s gaze, that he wasn’t just dealing with Bucky, that he wasn’t stupid, or untrained, and hadn’t lost that cunning or instinct.

 

“She’s just been keeping an eye on things for me Buck.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“Like you wouldn’t have done the same,” Steve admitted, running a hand over the back of his neck.

 

“I never said you were stupid, Steve.”

 

“No?” Steve found himself rising to the challenge. “I seem to remember you calling me an idiot plenty of times back in the day.”

 

“I said you weren’t stupid. I didn’t say you weren’t an idiot.” Bucky retorted just as easily.

 

“What the hell is the difference, Buck?”

 

“Think about it and get back to me. I’ll give you a gold star when you do.”

 

Steve couldn’t help it. He burst out laughing. Because it was just so Bucky, and just so much how they used to be. And if he could, he would have taken this moment and held it forever, because he had never thought it could be this way, that he could have this again, when it had been lost, thought dead, for so long.

 

Bucky was looking at him again. He wasn’t smiling, but there was a quirk, ever so slight to his eyes, that hinted at just a bit of the old mischief. But it seemed as if the exchange had used up all of his words, because he fell quiet again, and just kept walking with that steady, even pace.

 

“Um, where are we going?” Steve finally thought to ask.

 

“Breakfast,” was the answer as Bucky led him across Fifth Avenue, and then turned left, heading towards 51st Street. Steve couldn’t think of anything else to say, of where to start asking any of the millions of questions he wanted to ask. But Bucky seemed to be perfectly comfortable with the quiet as he led Steve down two more blocks until he stopped at a small bakery, opened its glass door, and held it open for Steve to step past him.

 

It was a small shop, barely wide enough for the two of them to stand side by side. It had fluorescent lighting, and a wall lined with glass cases that proudly displayed a selection of sweets and baked goods. There was an older woman sitting on a stool behind them at the front, and as soon as she saw Bucky, she smiled widely.

 

“Hola, Jamie!” she called out happily.

 

“Hola, Senora Perez,” Bucky answered in perfect Spanish. The change in him from just thirty seconds ago was remarkable. All of a sudden all of that coiled tension released, and he was as easy going and carefree as Steve could ever remember him being. His smile, while not as bright or broad as it had once been, was charming and sly, with just enough focused interest to be sincere. As he leaned forward to speak to the woman, it was with all of his attention, as if talking to Senora Perez was the only thing in the world that mattered to him.

 

Steve knew that it could turn on a dime, and that even as he conversed and laughed with the older woman, nodding and holding up two fingers to the woman’s questioning gaze, Bucky was very much aware of everything else going on around him. Steve was mesmerized, amazed at what he was seeing as the woman handed over a brown paper bag filled with long, golden brown pastries, and two small paper cups of coffee. Bucky continued to chat with her as he paid, and then she patted his hand gently, smiling all of the while, until Bucky turned with his bundles, glanced at Steve and nodded toward the door.

 

Steve followed Bucky as he walked back out onto the sidewalk, heading toward 50th Street. At the corner, he turned left, coming to a stop and then leaned against the brick wall of the building, quiet again.

 

“Um, what was that?” Steve couldn’t help but ask, as Bucky handed one of the small cups to him and began digging through the paper bag.

 

“Breakfast,” Bucky responded in that quiet voice from before. But Steve could hear it this time, the undertone beneath the words that said loud and clear _dumbass_. Bucky pulled one of the pastries out of the bag, a long, thick textured column, covered in what looked like a ton of sugar, and handed it to Steve.

 

“What’s this?” Steve took a careful sniff, catching scents both spicy and sweet. It was warm in his hands, and when he took his first bite it melted upon his tongue in a mix of vanilla, cinnamon and sugar. It had a crunchy outside, thanks to the coating, and a soft and chewy texture, with a creamy, custard center. “Holy shit, that’s good.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Bucky said around his own mouthful, before taking a sip of coffee.

 

“How did you even find-GAH!” Steve gasped as he took a sip from his own cup. “What the hell is _that?_ ”

 

“It’s Bustelo, Steve.”

 

“Bustelo?”

 

“Spanish expresso. Senora Perez brews it the old fashioned way. With a sock.”

 

“A sock?” Steve looked up and he could see that Bucky was fucking with him, and enjoying it way too much.

 

“It’s good for you Steve. Puts hair on your chest.”

 

“I don’t need any hair on my chest. I need my taste buds back. God, that’s awful.”

 

“Wimp,” Bucky said around another sip of the hairy tar he was trying to convince Steve was coffee, before he took another bite of his churro. He didn’t say anything else as they stood there, making their way through the warm pastries. But he did smirk at Steve the entire time, especially when Steve handed him his own barely touched cup of coffee. And then Bucky was stacking one cup within the other, and putting them in the brown bag, which he crumpled in his hands. Steve was about to ask Bucky what next, when Bucky tossed the bag into the trash, turned to Steve and said, “If you come back Thursday for lunch, I’ll take you to get pork buns.”

 

It was clear he was being dismissed, that their encounter was over for whatever reason. But it was also clear that it was an invitation, a reason to come back and not have to wait for an unknown amount of time sitting on Senora Lopez’s porch steps.

 

“Pork buns on Thursday. Got it,” Steve said.

 

Bucky studied him for a long moment, a slight tilt to his head, and in his eyes that blend that Steve was coming to recognize was a combination of both Bucky and the Winter Soldier, before he nodded, shoved his hands back in his pockets, turned and started to walk away.

 

“See you later Stevie,” he called quietly over his shoulder, before he hunched against the wind and made his way across the avenue.

 

The name was a gift, and Steve held it in his heart as carefully as a blessing, as gently as a dove, as he watched Bucky walk away.

 

He was definitely going to come back on Thursday.


	4. Chapter 4

Of course Steve was waiting outside on Thursday. Bucky had never had any doubt that he would be there.

 

It had been hard being so close to him on Monday. There were still gaps in his memory, pieces that he knew were missing, but all of the while, something inside of him had trembled and ached and yearned as he walked side by side with this man that he had once known. Strangely enough, both aspects within him had felt more closely tied together than they ever had before, one watchful and still wary, the other eager but unsure (W _hat did this man want? Would he be judged and found to be a disappointment?_ ) yet both curious, wanting to know more, to see if there was a way he could fit.

 

Both of his hands had been trembling by the time he made it back behind the closed door of the row house, and he’d had to lean back against the wall and take several long deep breaths to restore his equilibrium. But Steve had been patient and unassuming as Bucky shared just a small slice of his life with him and that had been enough encouragement for Bucky to keep reaching for something he couldn’t name, but knew was there.

 

Steve was grinning when Bucky stepped out onto the steps and did a quick visual sweep of the street, before he locked the door. He waited, and that was a kindness, for Bucky to reach the sidewalk before he rose from where he had been sitting and walked across the street.

 

“Hey Bucky.”

 

“Hey Steve.” Bucky bundled his scarf tighter around his throat and he turned right and started walking. It was bitterly cold out and there was a cutting wind as they made their way down the street. Bucky felt bad for leaving Steve out in the cold on a day like this, but Steve didn’t seem to be affected by the temperatures at all as he fell into pace at Bucky’s side.

 

“So, pork buns?” There was a chirp to Steve’s voice that Bucky didn’t think he had heard before, and a bounce to his step as they made their way down the block.

 

“Pork buns.” Bucky nodded.

 

Steve was kind enough to wait until they had crossed Third Avenue, before he asked, “How’re you doing Buck? Is everything okay? Is there anything you need?”

 

“I’m good.” Bucky did another quick scan of the street as he stepped onto the curb, wondering if Steve noticed. If he did, he didn’t say anything, just kept walking by Bucky’s side, keeping a respectful foot and a half away.

 

“What about you? How have you been?” It was only fair that he asked. Steve seemed to have so much concern for Bucky’s wellbeing, and while Bucky knew that Steve still rode out with the Avengers as Captain America when needed, he didn’t know anything else about Steve’s current life.

 

Steve seemed surprised, but pleased by the question, if his smile was anything to go by. “I’m doing good Buck. Really good. A lot better than I have been lately.”

 

“Uh-huh.” As if Bucky didn’t know what he meant by that, even if he could not completely grasp why. “What are you doing these days?”

 

“When I’m not following you to pork buns?” And oh, he still was a punk, wasn’t he?

 

“Yeah, when you’re not following me around to the best pork buns in all of Brooklyn.”

 

“This from a man who drinks coffee brewed in a sock.”

 

“Bustelo from a sock,” Bucky corrected. “And answer the damn question Stevie.” The use of that nickname must have been a gift, from the way Steve’s smile grew even brighter.

 

“Not much really.” They had just crossed Fourth Avenue and Steve was staring around curiously, like he was expecting Bucky to turn. Bucky keep walking west on 52nd Street. “I’m part of the Avengers, so I spend a lot of time with them, training, trying to find any leads we can and stop trouble before it actually gets a chance to start. When we don’t, well, we go out and fight. I hang with the guys, and every now and then I go to visit Sam and Peggy in DC.”

 

That was a lot of information, and he felt his brain stutter over it. Samuel Thomas Wilson, codename Falcon. They had fought before, and the Asset had destroyed his wings and then thrown him off the helicarrier. The Asset was strangely proud of that; Bucky didn’t think he should mention that to Steve.

 

And then Peggy…Peggy…Peggy. That named pinged and rattled in his mind, an old memory he was searching, searching, searching for, until –

 

“She’s still alive?” Steve was staring at him intently, and Bucky knew he must have been quiet for too long while his mind had reached within itself, trying to find this link.

 

“Yeah Bucky, she’s still alive.” Steve’s voice was soft, cautious, where before it had been bright and eager. “Do you…Do you remember her?”

 

“A bit,” he shrugged. “There’s lots missing. I don’t have all the pieces back yet.” That was more than he had meant to say. Now Steve would now he was broken, damaged, and he would discard Bucky. An asset only had value if it could maintain peak performance, and now that Steve was aware of the faults and cracks, he would withdraw his interest, his aid and more than likely kick Bucky out of the house.

 

But Steve’s response surprised him. “That’s okay. If there’s anything you want to know about, want clarity on, you can ask me, about anything Buck, and I’ll tell you.” Bucky could only nod, out of words, silenced by this kindness, when so little in his life had been kind to him. “As for Peggy, yeah, she’s still alive.”

 

“Was she frozen as well?”

 

“What? No, Bucky, no. She wasn’t frozen. She just,” Steve paused and shrugged. “She got old Buck. She got really, really old. The normal way.”

 

“Oh.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“It’s good that you get the chance to still see her then.” He was going to run out of words, and they weren’t even halfway to Mr. Yuen’s shop yet.

 

“Yeah it is Buck. I’m grateful for even that much, you know.” Steve seemed subdued, troubled, and Bucky was damned if he was going to let it continue, especially since it was his fault.

 

“Do you still draw?” he asked, honestly curious.

 

Steve seemed surprised by the question, but happily so if the returning smile was anything to go by. “Yeah, I still draw. Not as much as I used to, but every once in a while, if something strikes me, I’ll start to sketch.”

 

“You were always great at it,” Bucky tossed out, knowing in his bones that it was true. That made Steve’s smile grow even wider.

 

“Well, at least there was always one thing I was good at.” Steve shrugged.

 

“Oh, for fucks sake, Stevie,” Bucky shook his head. “All of that serum and all of those muscles, and your brain’s still the size of a lima bean. _Dumbass._ ”

 

This cause Steve to stop mid-stride, his eyes wide, before he burst out laughing, loud and hard in the middle of the street.

 

“Holy shit Buck,” he gasped, wiping at his eyes. Bucky shook his head again and kept on walking, secretly very pleased that he could make Steve laugh like that.

 

“Punk.”

 

“Jerk.” But Steve was still snorting as he said it. That was good, that was better than good. It meant that he could still make Steve laugh, when something deep within him thought that Steve probably hadn’t laughed like that in a long time.

 

The rest of the walk passed quietly, but easily enough after that, Steve still snorting at his side, until they turned right on Seventh Avenue, walked three more blocks and were finally in front of the Half Moon Bakery.

 

Bucky greeted Mr. Yuen, asking about his granddaughter, while Steve watched as he spoke Cantonese with a roll of his eyes. Mr. Yuen chattered on as he usually did, ignoring Steve for the most part, who had worn his own baseball cap today, keeping its brim pulled low to avoid any recognition, until finally the old man handed over a large white bag with a dozen of the still steaming buns inside.

 

“So, pork buns?” Steve asked, after they were sitting on the bench in Sunset Park Bucky had led him to.

 

“Pork buns.” Bucky handed one, just one, over.

 

“Holy shit, these are amazing!” was the response less than a minute later.

 

“Told you.” The white dough was soft and fluffy, and inside the pork was hot and greasy, the pieces perfectly spiced as they melted on the tongue. Bucky reached in and pulled out three more, before handing the bag to Steve. This too felt right, like it was something he had always done, making sure Stevie had enough to eat. Steve took the bag, but the look on his face was a little sad.

 

“You don’t have to give me most of the food anymore, Bucky,” he said softly. “I got plenty to eat now. Have for quite some time.” Bucky just shrugged. “I’m more worried that you’re eating enough.” He shrugged again.

 

“I’m okay.”

 

“Still – “

 

“I’m okay,” Bucky repeated.

 

Steve took a few more bites, chewing slowly, carefully, his face lowered. “Can I ask you something?”

 

“Can I stop you?”

 

Steve snorted, but his expression was still serious as he looked at Bucky.

 

“How much do you remember, Bucky?”

 

Bucky lowered his face and stared down at the pork buns in his hands. They were suddenly a lot less appetizing than they had been before. He did not want to answer that question, did not want Steve to hear the answer. But Steve had been kind, was still being kind, and he had asked for so little from him.

 

“Some,” Bucky whispered. “But not all of it. Not yet. It comes, in bits and pieces, sometimes when I want it to or not. Even when I don’t want the memories. And they’re not always where they should be. I have to try to make them fit right, put them in the right order.”

 

“Do you remember me?”

 

“Some,” Bucky said again. “A lot of it’s coming back. But a lot of it’s just…blank. But I do remember you Stevie.”

 

Steve nodded. “Is it helping? Being here, in the same neighborhood?”

 

“It helps…That building, the house…We used to live there, yeah?”

 

“Yeah Bucky, we did.” Steve told him. “My ma had died, and you wanted to give your ma and your sisters more space. So right after high school you got a job working construction, and we moved into the back room on the top floor.”

 

Bucky shook his head. He didn’t want to hear anymore. He’d had sisters, _sisters_ , and he couldn’t remember them, couldn’t see their faces, couldn’t recall their names, when he was sure, _he was sure_ that he had loved them once.

 

“Buck? Bucky? Are you all right?”

 

“I gotta go,” Bucky said, standing up. His head was starting to throb, and he could feel the wave rising in the background, the roar starting in his brain. He wasn’t going to be able to stop it, and he couldn’t, _couldn’t_ let Steve see him like this.

 

“Buck. Buck, what’s the matter Bucky?”

 

“I gotta go,” he said again, briefly seeing the three remaining buns in his hands and tossing them to Steve, some instinct telling him to not waste food, never waste food when you didn’t know when you would get a chance to eat again.

 

“Bucky, wait a minute. Let me help you,” he heard Steve’s voice through the oncoming wave.

 

_No one can help me Stevie,_ was Bucky’s last thought before he turned around and fled.

 


	5. Chapter 5

“Captain Rogers?”

 

“Yes, hi, hello Senora Lopez. Is everything all right?”

 

“Si, Captain Rogers, everything is fine. I just wanted to tell you. Your friend, he has come back.”

 

***

 

Seven days, seven fucking days since that day in the park that had started so well, and ended up with Bucky disappearing. It had been a good day. Bucky had joked with and teased him, and he seemed to have a better grasp of who he was, of who they had been. The day had been frigid, but the pork buns delicious and the company so easy going that Steve hadn’t minded sitting out in the cold. And then he had said something, done something, that had triggered Bucky and caused him to disappear. Not just from the park, but from his home.

 

_“He has left, Captain Rogers,” Senora Lopez had called to him from across the street, on the second day when Steve’s worry had been enough to make him do something he hadn’t before, and knock on the door._

_“Left?”_

_“Si, left. I told you, he does that sometimes.” Her face had been kind, and her voice soft as she crossed the street to him, placing a gentle hand on his arm. “But don’t worry. He always comes back. I’ll keep an eye out and call you as soon as he does.”_

 

And now Bucky was back.

 

Steve didn’t know what to do. He wanted to rush over there, to lay eyes on Bucky and make sure he was okay. But he also didn’t want to spook Bucky if he was still skittish, still dealing with whatever had caused him to run.

 

Steve waited two more days, before he couldn’t take it anymore and headed back to the row house.

 

He hadn’t even been sitting there for two minutes, debating whether or not to knock, before the door opened and Bucky stepped out without a coat, not even doing his usual scan before he was crossing the street toward Steve.

 

“Hey Bucky,” Steve began quietly. “Look, I just wanted to –“

 

“I’m sorry,” Bucky cut him off.

 

“What?”

 

“What happened last week, it wasn’t your fault, and I’m sorry I left you there like that.”

 

“Bucky, no, I was just worried that I’d done something that set you off when I didn’t mean to.” Steve managed to get out. Bucky glared at him.

 

“It wasn’t your fault Steve,” he said again, enunciating every word. “And it was a shitty thing for me to do. I’m sorry, okay?”

 

“Okay Bucky, okay,” Steve said. He was finally able to give Bucky a quick look over. His hair was clean and his eyes focused, but it looked like he had lost a little bit of weight over the past week. But he was there, and he was present, and at the moment he was the most beautiful thing Steve had ever seen. “Can I ask…Can I ask what happened?” Bucky lowered his gaze, looked to the side and sighed.

 

“Sometimes things hit me wrong, hit me hard, in here.” He lifted his right hand and tapped his forehead three times with his index finger. “The memories come, like a wave, and I can’t stop it once it starts, and I can’t get away from it. It can take me a while to come back, and I’m not safe to be around when I’m like that, so it’s best if I just leave.” Bucky finished with a mumble and a shrug.

 

Steve thought it was both horrible and interesting. Horrible, because those memories never should have been stolen from Bucky in the first place, and that when they came back, to Bucky it felt like being attacked. But interesting, because Bucky had enough self-awareness to realize he was a danger when he was in that state, and he wanted to protect those around him. There was a strength in that, somewhere deep in his core, and Steve found himself admiring it, even if the results had left him shattered and shaking in his own bed.

 

“Okay Bucky. I’m sorry if I did anything that set you off –“

 

“It wasn’t your fault,” Bucky said for the third time.

 

“But I was worried.”

 

“Sorry,” Bucky whispered.

 

“It’s okay Buck. I’m just glad you’re back, okay?”

 

“Okay.”

 

“Okay.”

 

The words fell away from them then, and they stood in silence for a while, Steve studying Bucky, and Bucky not meeting his gaze. Until he sighed, and seeming to come to a decision, he lifted his head.

 

“Do you want to come inside for a cup of coffee, Stevie?” he asked. Steve recognized this for what it was. Bucky was making him a peace offering, willing to let Steve inside of his sanctuary to make up for hurting Steve. And if there was anything Bucky had always hated doing, it was anything that could possibly hurt Steve.

 

“I would love to come in for a cup of coffee Buck, but only if it’s really okay with you.”

 

“Wouldna offered if it wasn’t Stevie.” Bucky turned around and started walking back across the street, glancing over his shoulder once to make sure Steve was following. Steve rushed after him, following Bucky up the steps and then past him through the door when Bucky motioned him inside. Steve waited in the foyer while Bucky now did his visual scan of the sidewalks before closing and locking the door, then beckoning Steve to follow him. He didn’t bother taking off his shoes, so Steve didn’t either, just continued on two steps behind Bucky into the kitchen. Bucky waved his hand at the table, and then turned toward the counter to start fussing with the coffee maker.

 

“You cleaned.” Steve couldn’t help but comment as he looked around. He knew Bucky had, Senora Lopez had told him so, but the results were surprising. The house was still run down, from what little he could see. But every surface was scrubbed clean, and the scent of lemon hung in the air.

 

“Yeah, I cleaned. The place was a dump when I got here Stevie.” It was a joke, meant to tease and relieve the tension.

 

“Yeah well, when I bought this place I had plans to fix it up. But then I got distracted, chasing your big fat head across the country.” As soon as the words were out, Steve wondered if he had already gone too far, when things were still so fragile between them right now.

 

“Yeah well, better a big fat head than an empty one,” came Bucky’s reply as he dug through a drawer in search of a coffee filter. Steve snorted. But then Bucky stopped what he was doing, tilting his head forward so that his face was hidden behind his hair before he went on in a shy voice. “But the bedroom upstairs. That was really nice Stevie. I like the yellow and blue. It’s real nice. I don’t think I ever thanked you for that, but well.” Bucky shrugged and said nothing more, reaching for the can of coffee next to the coffee maker.

 

“You’re very welcome Bucky,” Steve smiled. “I’m glad you liked it.”

 

“I did. I do. Thank you. Now sit down and I’ll get you that cup of coffee.”

 

As Steve slid his coat off, resting it on the back of his chair, he studied Bucky. He was still unsettled, a bit jittery and jerky in his movements. There was someone unfamiliar in his home, and he probably still hadn’t fully recovered from whatever set him off. It was evident in the way he moved.

 

But then something strange happened. Bucky cocked his head to the side, just once, and Steve heard a sound he would never, ever forget – the whir and murmur of the plates of Bucky’s left arm shifting, tightening, preparing themselves for battle. With their sound, something in Bucky seemed to settle, still, and he moved with a fluidity and precision that hadn’t been there just a second ago. And Steve knew that he was now looking at the _Winter Soldier_.

 

But…

 

But.

 

Bucky didn’t turn around and attack him. Nor did he strike out. It was as though the deadliest aspect of Bucky had risen to the surface, and was watching, waiting, studying. As Steve stared, he could see that that side of him had curled itself around Bucky and was covering, shielding him. It didn’t attack. It just sat, and observed and waited, keeping itself in a holding pattern, protecting.

 

And that was…Terrifying. Strange. Fascinating.

 

Then Bucky turned around to ask him if he took cream and sugar in his coffee, and Steve realized that he was wrong. The Winter Soldier was there, but so was Bucky. In his eyes, Steve could see both the deadly efficiency and icy precision of the Winter Soldier. But also the warmth, keen intelligence and ever-present intuition of Bucky. They were separate for now, but they were fusing, finding a way to blend themselves together into a single whole.

 

 _And_ _holy shit_ , Steve thought, if and when they did finally fuse, _HYDRA was going to be fucked_.

 

If anyone could do it, it would be James Buchanan Barnes. He had pulled himself together after being tortured for who knew how long as Zola’s lab-rat, unwillingly injected with a serum that, Steve knew, would have ravaged and burned through every fiber of his body. Only to shake it off and return to the field and become Steve’s second-in-command, with no one the wiser to what had happened. He had stopped himself from taking the killing blow on the helicarrier, and then pulled Steve’s body out of the Potomac, when his own had been just as badly beaten and injured, because something in Steve had called, and from somewhere deep inside Bucky had answered. And he had fought, was still fighting, tooth and nail and with bloodied fingertips, to rebuild and reclaim himself, reclaim all that he had lost, after over seventy years of HYDRA brainwashing and torturing him.

 

He was never going to be the Bucky he had been, could never be that man again; the realization of that made Steve’s heart ache. He was going to become something new. Still with the essence of Bucky inside of him, but also the _Winter Solider_ , both better and more dangerous than they – _he_ \- had ever been.

 

Something deep within Steve wanted to crow with glee. Because to see it happening, to bear witness to it, was going to be spectacular. And if there was even the slightest chance that he could have that, have this new Bucky Barnes guarding his back and once again acting as his second in command, HYDRA and anyone else who dared to threaten the safety of the world wouldn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell.

 

That was if, and only if, Bucky seemed interested. If Bucky asked, if Bucky wanted. Steve would never take any choices away from Bucky ever again, not after what he had been through. If Bucky wanted to walk away from everything, and live a life where he did nothing more than water flowers and play with bunnies, Steve would support him. It was Bucky’s choice, and Steve would make sure with everything he had, that it was only ever Bucky’s choice.

 

“I got food too, if you’re hungry,” Bucky offered, sliding a mug of coffee in front of Steve.

 

“I could eat,” Steve said, as he spooned sugar and then poured cream into his coffee. “A sandwich maybe?”

 

“Yeah, that I can do. How does a BLT sound?” Bucky went over to the freezer and pulled out an unopened packet of bacon.

 

“It sounds awesome Buck.”

 

The rest of the morning passed quite pleasantly. They ate their bacon, lettuce and tomatoes on onion bagels (Bucky made his bacon extra crispy, just the way Steve liked) and chatted for a bit, about the weather of all things. It was easy going, but Steve could see that Bucky was still uncomfortable with his presence in his home. Steve didn’t want to wear out his welcome. This had been an act of trust and a test. He hadn’t been invited deeper into the den, but he had proven he could be a respectful guest. And he hoped that maybe next time, Bucky would invite him into more than just his kitchen.

 

Bucky didn’t even let Steve do the dishes, waving him away. But as Steve put on and buttoned his coat, they did agree to meet for doughnuts three days later.

 

“Doughnuts? Really Bucky?”

 

“Best fucking doughnuts in Brooklyn, Stevie. Be here by eleven or I’m leaving without you.”

 

Steve was there by eleven.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who had commented so far, I just wanted to say thank you. Each and every single one has been greatly appreciated. And if you've liked this story so far, please feel free to say hi to me here or on my Tumblr. I always love to meet and chat with fellow Stucky fans. =)


	6. Chapter 6

Steve was there as expected three days later. But instead of sitting on the stoop across the street, he was leaning against the concrete border that separated the house from the sidewalk. It was a test, Bucky knew, but not of him. It seemed to Bucky that Steve was circling, checking if it was all right for him to come closer. If Bucky said anything about it, Steve would back off, go back to waiting across the street. But Bucky found that he was fine with it as he closed the door and made his way down the ten stone steps to the pavement.

 

“Got snow on your ass,” he said as he stepped through the space where an old gate must once have been. There were rust stains and holes in the concrete border, but the gate was now long gone. He took a step back and glanced up at the house. A gate might be nice, a good, wrought iron metal one, with a solid lock. And spikes. Long, sharp, pointy spikes.

 

“Yeah well, you would too if you’d been sitting out here waiting because some asshole said there would be doughnuts,” Steve countered, wiping the snow from the back of his jeans. “You need to shovel the steps Buck. They gotta be an ice trap by now.” Steve caught Bucky staring, and followed his gaze to the building, tilting his head questioningly.

 

“Nah,” Bucky shook his head and then started to walk, Steve at his side, the two of them easily falling into this new, familiar rhythm. “I like ‘em like that. Keeps all the riffraff and dumbasses away.”

 

“Jerk.”

 

“Punk.”

 

“I gotta say, Buck, the doughnuts better well be damned worth it,” Steve said a few strides later, his shoulders and hat already covered with a thin layer of snow.

 

“Have I ever steered you wrong before?”

 

“I seem to remember a stew just outside of Lisieux during the war, that you swore was beef but ended up being rat.” Steve sounded as if he was still mad about that, when he had been the one to devour more than three bowls of the stuff.

 

“It was meat Stevie, and I don’t recall you complaining while you were stuffing your gob,” Bucky said unthinking. And then he stopped suddenly. Because he did remember that. He and Dugan  ( _was it Dugan?_  ) had hunted and skinned the rats themselves before putting them in the pot. Yeah, it was rat, but it had been cold and the Commandos starving, and as their Sergeant, it was his job to take care of them, to take care of Stevie, who was too big and thought himself too invincible now to focus on the little things, the things that needed to be done to allow for full functionality. It had been his job, and they were hungry and…

 

“Rat stew, huh.” He heard himself say, coming to and finding himself leaning against a lamppost, his hand on his forehead and Steve a few steps away, staring at him in concern. It was obvious he wanted to help, was desperate to, but didn’t know how. Bucky glanced up at the sky, at the snowflakes that caught in his lashes and melted on his cheeks, ( _Brooklyn, he was in Brooklyn now with Stevie, not France),_ and shook his head.

 

“How long was I gone?” he asked, taking a deep breath of the icy air, letting its slice to his lungs ground him in the now.

 

“Less than two minutes,” Steve’s voice was soft, worried. “We were walking, and you just kinda suddenly swerved and stopped.”

 

“Huh.”

 

“Are you okay, Bucky?” Steve pressed, but he was being cautious, careful, trying so hard not to startle. Bucky considered. He felt a little off, but not by much, and Steve hadn’t tried to come any closer, so he didn’t feel threatened. And the memory, it had been a good one, in its own way. He was going to want to go over it again later, see if he could remember anything else.

 

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He straightened from the lamppost, and tapped his head before he resumed walking. “Rat stew. I didn’t even know I had that one in there. But it’s a good one, so it’s all right.”

 

“Maybe for you it’s a good one,” Steve grumbled as he fell into pace next to Bucky. He was joking, teasing, but Bucky could sense he was still worried, still watchful. “It was still rat stew, Buck.”

 

“Me and…Dugan, right?” he ventured after a moment, wanting to make sure the name was right, that he wasn’t misremembering.

 

“Yeah, you and Dugan. Dum Dum.” There was something that sounded a little like awe in Steve’s voice.

 

And then because Steve had offered, when they had first started these small little day trips for food, Bucky decided to ask. “Tell me?”

 

Steve seemed happy to comply. He launched into the tale of how they had set up camp just outside the small village, waiting for their next orders, while Bucky and Dugan had decided to find food. He grew more enthusiastic the more he spoke, while still keeping a watchful eye on Bucky’s state, before explaining how it had been Falsworth who had cottoned on, had noticed how both Bucky and Dugan were only eating the vegetables after ranting and raving about the meat, crying out _“It’s rat, isn’t you, you bloody wankers?”_   Then it had been Bucky’s turn as he apparently started going on about how was meat was meat, and rat was considered a delicacy in some cultures, didn’t you know, before Steve ended the story with how at that, Morita had burst out with _“Don’t even start that shit with me. I like hamburgers, just like everybody else, you fucker.”_

 

“Ha!” Bucky heard himself cackle. “He was so _pissed off!_ ” The memory was there, sharp and clear in his mind, not complete, but getting there, more details emerging from the grey. Maybe they had been brought on by the humor of the story. Or maybe it was because of Steve’s presence, solid and steady at his side, and _safe, safe, safe_ something inside of him echoing.

 

“We all were, Buck. Jesus Christ, rat stew.” Steve’s eyes were bright, his cheeks flushed as he grinned at Bucky. Bucky nodded and kept walking, his mind now turning over a new idea, a longing he wasn’t sure he had the right to ask for. Steve went quiet, seeming to notice the shift, but kept his easy pace at Bucky’s side.

 

“It’s a good memory Stevie. Do you think that maybe?” Bucky dared to ask after another moment, lowering his head to hide behind his hair.

 

“That maybe what, Buck?”

 

“That maybe you could draw it for me?”

 

Steve jerked, just a bit, as if startled. But then he smiled again, a wide, bright grin that lit up his entire face from within.

 

“Yeah Bucky, I’d be happy to. Anything you want. Never worry about asking, okay? I’d be more than happy to draw anything you wanted.” Steve was practically bouncing on his toes as they continued to make their way through the cold and snow.

 

“It wasn’t just rat, you know,” Bucky said a few blocks later.

 

“What?”

 

“There was squirrel in there too. Or at least we thought it was. Dum Dum found it, just lying there. Roadkill.”

 

_“What?”_

 

After that, the doughnuts were delicious.

 

***

 

Four days later Steve found himself being taken for pizza. Over a pie of sausage, meatball, onion and black olive pizza, that was the absolute best that Steve had ever tasted, he decided to stop wondering how the hell Bucky was finding all these places, and just happily reap the benefits. The staff once again seemed to recognize Bucky, the teenage girl behind the counter calling out to Bucky that were going _to put his pie right in, it would be about twenty minutes, have a seat,_ as soon as they walked in. Bucky just smirked at Steve’s rolled eyes and led him to a small booth at the back of the pizzeria, that had clear sight lines of the entire space, making sure to sit with his back to the wall.

 

“Got anything to say, Stevie?” Bucky asked him twenty five minutes later, as Steve made his way through his second slice. Damn, it was good. Thin crisp crust, greasy, gooey cheese, with healthy portions of meatball and sausage in each bite.

 

“Nmph,” Steve managed around his mouthful. Bucky didn’t smile, but his eyes did crinkle at the corners, indicating he was definitely amused. “I’m just going to sit here, shut up and accept the gifts I’ve been given.”

 

“Well, I guess there’s a first time for everything,” Bucky said, popping a garlic knot into his mouth. It was comfortable eating with Bucky; not just because the places he found always had the best food, or that they were slowly rebuilding their own banter. But as Bucky had an appetite just like his, Steve never had to explain why he ordered two of almost everything, or asked for extra sides and helpings. The serum had done wonderful things to his body, and could push his endurance past anything any normal human could stand. But the price for that was a high caloric intake. There were no sneers of derision from Bucky, like with Sam, or knowing glances, like Natasha, or attempts at snark that were really just dumb, Tony, whenever he ate with Bucky. With Bucky, he could just sit and eat and enjoy his food, without feeling like his choices were a freaky side-show. Apparently Bucky’s body worked the same way, so he just nodded and went to the counter when Steve suggested a second pizza, pepperoni and mushroom this time, adding two stromboli to the order.

 

While they waited for it to be brought to the table, Steve reached into the messenger bag he had brought with him this time, and pulled out a sketchbook. He laid it on the table, and slowly slid it in Bucky’s direction.

 

Bucky blinked once, then twice, before he reached out with his right hand (and he tended to use his right hand for most things, at least when he was out in public), and gently fingered the cover.

 

“Already?” he asked.

 

“Yeah Buck. You asked, and I had plenty of time, so.” Steve shrugged. Bucky ran his fingers over the surface for a few seconds more, before he pulled the notebook closer, turned it around, and flipped open the cover.

 

Steve had done more than draw the single scene Bucky had requested. Overcome with more inspiration than he had in a long time, Steve had filled most of the pages with images from the war of the Howling Commandos. Nothing too bad, or graphic; he didn’t want to upset Bucky. They were sketches instead of the shenanigans the Howlies had gotten up to, both while on missions and during downtime.

 

Bucky’s gaze was intense as he slowly turned the pages, carefully studying each image. Every once and a while, he would pause in his perusal, his eyes flicking back and forth rapidly, as if he were speed reading something. That was a tell Steve was coming to recognize. It had happened when they had been sitting in the park, and then again when they had been walking down the street the other day. It meant that Bucky was seeing something, turning inward to watch the events unfold. The plates in his arm were silent, didn’t shift, so Bucky didn’t feel threatened. But Steve could see the Winter Solder there, quietly keeping watch, while Bucky’s mind turned inward. It was still creepy as fuck, but Steve recognized it was something else he was also getting used to. As long as Steve was respectful and non-threatening, it seemed as though it was willing to let him be. And he wondered, with a strange sort of hunger, if he could ever get it to accept him as an ally. They had the same goal after all, to keep Bucky safe.

 

It happened twice while Bucky turned through the pages, and it didn’t last long. Steve had no idea how it worked; had the memory from the other day loosened others? Did they follow each other like a ribbon, a road, or were they random. Steve wanted so badly to help, but he didn’t think he could ask. Not yet. And Bucky hadn’t volunteered any more information, so Steve let the questions lie. It was enough for now to be sitting here with Bucky and enjoying pizza and soda. And besides, he had something else he wanted to accomplish today, a way to strengthen their link.

 

Bucky turned back to the beginning of the book, to the picture he had requested. He saw the little detail Steve had added there and cackled. In the upper right hand corner, Steve had sketched an image, given the new information he had. He had drawn a tiny caricature of Bucky, with devil’s ears on its head and a wicked grin, holding up by the tail a greyish lump of what was obviously roadkill.

 

“Holy shit Stevie, that’s awesome!” Bucky laughed.

 

“Yeah, I figured you’d get a kick out that.” Steve had hoped he would, that the little sketch wouldn’t disrupt the image of the memory Bucky had asked for. Apparently his instincts had been right.

 

“I fucking love it,” Bucky said. And then he reached for his back pocket, pulled out a phone, and snapped a picture. “I’m making it my wallpaper.”

 

Steve sat there with his mouth agape. The sonovabitch had a cell phone. A goddamned fucking cell phone, when Steve had one in his bag that he had been hoping he could convince Bucky to accept so that he could call Steve in case he needed him.

 

“Trying to catch flies there, Stevie?” Bucky asked as he made a few quick and knowing taps to the screen, before sliding it into sleep mode and putting the phone back into his pocket.

 

“You have a cell phone?”

 

“Course I do. It’s the twenty first century Stevie. Why wouldn’t I have one?” And oh, there was that shit eating grin, that told Steve that Bucky knew exactly how pissed off Steve was, and that he still didn’t give a damn.

 

“ _You. Have. A. Cell. Phone?_ ”

 

“Yep,” and he popped the p, as if he remembered how that too had always pissed Steve off.

 

“You have a goddamned cell phone, and you didn’t think about, I dunno, maybe giving me the number?” Steve had to fight to keep himself from reaching across the table and strangling Bucky, friends returned back from the dead be-damned.

 

“Oh look.” Bucky was all casual nonchalance as he leaned backed in his seat and pointed at Steve’s face. “You still get that vein in your forehead whenever you’re pissed off.”

 

“Why on earth didn’t you let me know you already had a cell phone?” Steve said through gritted teeth.

 

“Now why the hell would I do that?” Bucky asked as he draped his arm along the back of the booth. And oh, the bastard was having so much fun with this. “I’m a busy man Steve, and I got shit to do. I can’t get it done if I spend all my time answering your calls all day.”

 

_“I swear to god, James Buchanan Barnes, I am going to-“_

 

“Oh hey Elena, that was quick. Here, let me help you with that,” Bucky cut him off as he rose to help their server slide their pizza onto the table. He was smiling, all wolfish charm and easy going grace, and Elena was blushing by the time she left. After sliding an extra unordered serving of garlic knots in front of Bucky, of course.

 

“Eat your pizza Stevie, before it gets cold,” Bucky said after a moment of Steve just sitting there, glaring at him.

 

“You’re still the biggest pain in the ass I've ever met.”

 

“Yeah whatever. Eat your pizza.”

 

The second pie was just as good as the first, even if Steve did grumble through the first two slices. Bucky just sat there, looking as if Steve’s annoyance was the most amusing thing ever. But he only ate two of the slices, leaving Steve the rest, while he made his way through the garlic knots. Steve really needed to break him of that habit, but not today. Bucky had given him an opening, and it was time to change tactics.

 

“So what have you been doing?” he asked instead.

 

“Hmm?” Bucky looked up from where he had been scooping up the parmesan cheese and oil from the bottom of the paper plate with the last garlic knot.

 

“You said you’re busy. I was just wondering what you’ve been so busy with.”

 

Bucky’s eyes narrowed slightly as he stared back at Steve. And oh, hello, there were the two parts of him, both keenly focused on Steve with that sniper’s intensity.

 

“Didn’t Rosario Lopez tell you?” When he spoke, his accent was a perfect copy of Senora Lopez’s, his voice pitched to include a slightly feminine lilt. And a point, sharp and deadly, like the very tip of a dagger pressed to the back of your neck. And okay, maybe Steve didn’t want to play with this new Bucky anymore.

 

“She’s just an old woman Bucky. I told you, I asked her to keep an eye on things for me.” Steve needed to stop this now, stop it before it became something dangerous.

 

“Mm-hmm.”

 

“She’s not a threat, Bucky.” He kept his voice low, but he put strength behind it. It was the tone he used as a Captain back during the war, when he needed to convince his men to follow him. Not by threatening them, but by reminding them of how he had always stood behind his promises, and had led them to victory after victory. It had called for their attention, and the Bucky of old had always responded to it, even when he thought Steve’s ideas were nuts. _Trust me,_ it said, _I’m your leader for a reason._ _I respect your loyalty, and because of that I will never let you down._

 

It had worked then, and it worked now. Something in Bucky released, and he lowered his eyes and sighed.

 

“She’s a grandma, Buck. She’s harmless.”

 

“Yeah, I know,” he admitted after a moment. He glanced up at Steve hesitantly for an instant, before lowering his gaze again. “Don’t worry. I wouldn’t ever hurt her. You have my word.”

 

“I know you wouldn’t, but thank you for saying so,” Steve said. Bucky nodded, and went back to picking at his food. Steve watched him for a few minutes, before he plated a slice of pizza and slid it in front of him.

 

“Anyway, you gonna answer my question?” Steve kept his voice light, gentle, wanting to get the Bucky from a few minutes before back.

 

“’Bout what?” Okay, he was being evasive. Steve wondered what was going through his head, how the two pieces were interacting.

 

“’Bout what you spend your time doing during the day?” Steve took a chance and lightly kicked Bucky’s foot beneath the table.

 

“When I’m not busy feeding you?” And that was better. Not quite there again, but better.

 

“Yeah Buck, when you’re not feeding me.”

 

“Not much,” Bucky shrugged. “Go shopping for some food, found out there’s some stuff I like that isn’t in the delivery you keep sending.”

 

“If there’s anything you want, you know you just have to ask for it on the form.”

 

“Yeah I know. But I like going out and finding new things to try. See what I like.”

 

“That’s great Bucky.” And it was. He was exploring, discovering himself. Steve would do everything in his power to make sure he kept having that freedom.

 

“And I’m fixing up the house.” The _as you know_ was left unsaid.

 

“How’s that going?”

 

Bucky shrugged again. “It’s going. It’s slow, and it’s taking me a long time. Longer than I thought it would. There are things I don’t know how to do, and I have to figure them out, but it’s good. I enjoy it.” And there was the opening Steve was looking for.

 

“Do you need any help?” he offered, trying to sound casual. He wondered if Bucky would deflect, or ignore the question.

 

“I’m sure you got better things to do Steve, than dig around in an old house. Avengers’ stuff.”

 

“I actually don’t Bucky. It’s pretty quiet at the moment. And most of my time is really my own. I got nuttin’ to do.” Steve kicked at Bucky’s foot again. “And if something did come up, I’d be more than happy to let someone know, if the shithead would just give me his damned cell phone number.”

 

“Yeah well Stevie, haven’t you learned by now? You don’t always get what you want outta life.” And okay, Bucky was trying to be playful. He was still subdued, but he was trying. Steve would take what he could get.

 

“Asshole.”

 

“Dumbass.” With that, Bucky slid the slice of pizza back in front of Steve. “Anyway, I gotta go.”

 

“Go? Go where?”

 

“I feel like going for a run,” Bucky said as he rose from the table.

 

“Run? You run?” Steve asked in disbelief. He didn’t know why. Bucky was muscular and sleek. Steve had assumed it was all the work he was doing on the house that had helped to maintain his physique. He hadn’t thought that Bucky was doing anything else, which was stupid of him. Bucky wasn’t going to let his skills get rusty; he probably kept up a very strict training regimen. But to find out that he ran. Steve wanted, oh did he want.

 

“Yeah, every day, why?”

 

“I love to run Buck.” Steve put out as an offer. Bucky looked at him as if he thought Steve was stupid for thinking he didn’t know that.

 

“That’s nice, good for you.”

 

“I would love a running partner.”

 

“Yeah well, remember what I said Stevie. You don’t always get what you want outta life.” Bucky leaned over and slapped the back of Steve’s shoulder. “Now finish your goddamned pizza. I’ll see you in a few days.” With that, Bucky picked up the sketchbook and sauntered out of the pizzeria. Steve didn’t even bother getting up. He knew by the time he reached the door, Bucky would be long gone.

 

***

 

Bucky sighed and leaned back onto his haunches from where he had been crouched on the floor, prying the linoleum off of the floor in one of the upstairs bedrooms. It was dirty, sweaty work, but it was mind-numbing and it kept his hands busy. He needed work like this after today, when the twists and turns of his own mind during lunch with Steve had surprised him. Bucky hadn’t meant to snap at Steve the way he had about the old woman across the street. He knew she was harmless, he knew that.

 

He had spent so much of his life being studied, observed, watched, and the thought of allowing someone out there to deliberately do that, even if it was passive and harmless, made his nerves itch. He had wanted to snarl, to prove that he was not some thing to be played with, and had gone too far.

 

Steve had remained steady and even-keeled, using that goddamned voice that Bucky had never been able to resist, to pull him back, to assure and calm him down. A part of him had wanted to hate Steve for that. He wasn’t anybody’s asset anymore. He didn’t have to follow anyone’s orders. But it had been the right course of action to take, calling on all of that trust and belief in his ability, not ordering Bucky to trust his judgement, but asking him to. And it had worked. By giving him a choice, Bucky couldn’t help but make the right one.

 

But it left him unsettled and pissy, when Steve had been nothing but helpful, so before he could fuck it up anymore, he had left.

 

And now Steve was starting to ask for things. For his phone number, to come into his house, to go running with him. It was a lot. It wasn’t unreasonable, but it was still a lot, and Bucky didn’t know if he was ready for that yet. He knew Steve was going to end up with his number eventually. It was just a burner phone, that he paid for with cash, and it wasn’t registered anywhere. But Steve was going to keep asking, keep bitching about it, and did Bucky really want Steve to have that much access to him just yet?

 

As he sat there, scratching at his nose, he thought and thought and thought about it, and decided that yeah, maybe he did. It made sense, and Steve had been nothing but absolutely trustworthy so far.

 

Bringing him into the house; Bucky knew he definitely wasn’t ready for that yet. It was hard and dirty work, and it could often bring out the worst in himself. He didn’t need Steve to see what a mess he really was, sometimes curled up crying on the floor. This space was his own, even if it really did belong to Steve, and it was nice to have something he could claim as just his. So not yet. Maybe one day, when his shit was more together, but not just yet.

 

Now the running, that was interesting. It had been amusing how Steve had thrown that out there, as if Bucky didn’t know, as if he hadn’t actually followed Steve on a few of his early morning runs, just to see if he’d notice Bucky was there. ( _He hadn’t so far, proving that Captain America or not, he was still a dumbass_.) Bucky didn’t keep to a set schedule. He ran when the mood struck him, and took a different path each day. He was serious about it, but he also wanted to avoid falling into any predictable patterns that could be traced. So sometimes it was early in the morning, sometimes late at night, dusk, dawn, the witching hour, twilight. He was sure Steve wouldn’t appreciate the randomness of his schedule.

 

But then again, that might just make it worth it. If Steve was going to start making requests, Bucky would make him sorry he had ever asked.

 

 _Oh, this was going to be a lot of fun_ , Bucky thought, as he picked up his industrial scraper and went back to prying the linoleum off of the floor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All comments are greatly appreciated and more than welcome. Please always feel free to say hi.


	7. Chapter 7

**11:45 pm, incoming text from unknown number** : _I’m going for a run. If you’re interested in coming along, meet me on the corner of 50 th and 3rd in 15 minutes._

 

 **Steve Rogers** : _Bucky? Is that you?_

 

 **Unknown number** : _If you’re not there by then, I’m leaving without you._

 

 **Steve Rogers** : _Goddammit Bucky._

 

Steve made it with a minute to spare.

 

***

 

 **Incoming text from Asshole at 9:32 pm** : _Going for another run. Meet me outside the house in ten minutes or I’m going to tell Senora Lopez you called her an old lady._

 

 **Steve Rogers** : _Ten minutes? Give a guy some warning, why don’t you? (And don’t you dare.)_

 

 **Asshole** : _I can make it to your apartment in 7. (And I will.)_

 

 **Steve Rogers** : _Wait. How do you know that Bucky?_

 

 **Asshole** : _You got 9 mins._

 

Steve made it in less than eight.

 

***

 

 **4:42 am from Sorry I Asked** : _Time for another run Rogers._

 

 **Steve Rogers** : _Bucky, it’s Sunday. Even God said Sunday was a day of rest._

 

 **Sorry I Asked** : _God never had to outrun HYDRA. You got 5 mins._

 

 **Steve Rogers** : _I. Hate. You._

 

***

 

In spite of all of the weird times, and the fact that Bucky was obviously messing with him, Steve loved running with Bucky. _He fucking loved it._ He ran as often as he could, relishing in the strength and endurance given to him by his enhanced body. He ran on the treadmill in Stark’s gym when he was at the Avengers Tower, and with Sam when he visited him in DC. But while the treadmill could keep up with his pace, even listening to music, it was somewhat boring. And while Sam was in excellent condition, even at his best he couldn’t keep up with Steve.

 

But with Bucky, Steve could just _run_. And Bucky was the only one who had ever been able to match him. They didn’t say anything while they ran, just fell into a smooth, easy pace. Steve let Bucky pick the route, “ _No patterns Stevie, a pattern makes you predictable_ ,” and they took off, matching each other stride for stride. It challenged his body in a way it had almost never been, stretching his muscles and giving them the hard work out he hungered for.

 

As they ran, down avenues and side streets, around parks, and even by the waterfront once or twice, Steve catalogued the differences in their physiques. He had better endurance, was bigger and probably stronger than Bucky, having an inch and at least a good twenty pounds on him during the weeks when Bucky had been eating well. But Bucky was leaner, lighter on his feet, probably a bit faster but better at conserving his energy, and he used that to his advantage. Steve could barely hear him, even if Bucky was directly by his side, he was so stealthy in his movements.

 

The bastard also played dirty. He had no problem hip-checking Steve when they reached a corner, causing Steve to misstep, while he dashed out ahead to beat the changing light, laughing at Steve while Steve cursed him out. Or changing direction mid-step, racing back the way they had just come, challenging Steve to see if he could keep up. He played dirty, but oh, it was so much fun.

 

And then during their fourth run, Bucky did something that surprised Steve. They started off in sync, as they usually did with Bucky leading the way. But after a block, Bucky fell back just slightly, and let Steve set the pace and pick the route. Steve glanced over his shoulder questioningly, but Bucky had just shrugged, and remained half a pace behind. As long as Steve kept the run challenging, and picked a different path each time, Bucky was content to let him lead. It energized and humbled Steve, that Bucky was willing to trust him like that, willing to follow, unless he got bored and felt like being a smartass, and then _it was on._

 

They started running together almost every day, Bucky picking the time, Steve selecting the route, and it quickly became Steve’s favorite part of his day; well, that and the meals they still shared, almost every two days now. As long as Steve let Bucky know his upcoming schedule, Bucky would select a time that worked for both of them, and together they flew across Brooklyn. They would end their runs with Steve bent over, his hands on his legs, gasping for breath, and Bucky usually leaning against whatever surface was nearby, doing the same, the both of them flushed and sweaty. Bucky would toss him a sports drink or a bottle of water, while drinking from his own, looking as happy and carefree as Steve had ever seen him. When they were done, sometimes they would grab something to eat and sometimes they would go their separate ways, but it was becoming a part of their pattern, and Steve could feel the shift in their relationship as Steve led them safely down the streets, and Bucky started to trust him even more.

 

It was good, it was so fucking good, so Steve wondered why he was surprised, when after only a few weeks, something in Bucky seemed to shift, and he opened up to Steve even more.

 

***

 

 **Pain in My Ass** : _You got a car?_

 

 **Steve Rogers** : _Hello? Who is this? Do I know you?_

 

 **Pain in My Ass** : _Knock it off Stevie. Do you have a car?_

 

 **Steve Rogers** : _Why yes, everything’s OK and I’m having a good day. Thanks for asking._

 

 **Pain in My Ass** : _Fine. I’ll just ask Senora Lopez if I can borrow hers._

 

 **Steve Rogers** : _Why do you need a car Bucky?_

 

 **Pain in My Ass** : _I need to go shopping._

 

 **Steve Rogers** : _Shopping?_

 

 **Pain in My Ass** : _Yeah Stevie. Shopping. Do you have a car?_

 

 **Steve Rogers** : _I have an SUV._

 

 **Pain in My Ass** : _Even better. Are you coming or not?_

 

 **Steve Rogers** : _Be there in 15._

 

***

 

Bucky was already outside waiting for him when Steve pulled the SUV to a stop in front of the row house. Steve popped the lock, lowered the window, leaned over and asked, “Someone call for a cab?”

 

Bucky grinned at him, but he didn’t get into the car right away. Instead, he pulled a small, tube-like device from his pea-coat pocket and started circling the car, waving it back and forth and up and down.

 

“Um, what are you doing Buck?” Steve was confused.

 

“Scanning.” His voice was flat, all business and no-nonsense.

 

“Scanning for what?”

 

“Bugs, tracking devices, explosives.”

 

“ _You think there could be a bomb in my truck?_ ” Steve gasped.

 

“When was the last time you checked Stevie?” Bucky had crouched low, and was moving the device slowly, methodically, back and forth.

 

“Um, never. Normal people don’t scan their vehicles for bombs or bugs before they get inside, Bucky.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Bucky grunted. “And that’s why we’re doing this now.” The tone in his voice clearly said _dumbass_. “Okay, truck’s clear.” Bucky pocketed the device, opened the door and then climbed inside.

 

“I – wha – are you – No, you know what, never mind. I don’t even want to know.” Steve shook his head as Bucky put on his seatbelt. “Where are we going Buck?”

 

“Home Depot.”

 

“Home Depot?”

 

“You still deaf, Stevie? I thought the serum fixed that.”

 

“Asshole.” Steve shook his head, closed the window, and drove to Home Depot.

 

***

 

Bucky needed to purchase a floor sander. Since he was at the hardware store with Steve’s truck, he was going to take advantage of its storage space and pick up a few other items as well. Said items included a ladder, plastic sheeting, pry bar, putting knife, floor scraper, a scouring tool, rubber gloves and a spray bottle. Bucky went from aisle to aisle, searching for all of the items that he needed, while he graciously allowed Steve to trail behind, pushing the cart. He was quick and efficient though, occasionally comparing the labels on two items he was trying to decide between, but forty five minutes later, they were in line, waiting to pay.

 

Steve was about to reach for his wallet, but Bucky beat him to it, handing over a VISA card with the name Charles Hoffarth embossed on the front. Steve stood there with his mouth agape, as the card was approved, and Bucky signed for the items, while the cashier bagged them up.

 

“You okay there Steve?” Bucky asked, as he pulled on the front of the cart that was refilled with their purchases so they could easily roll them out to his SUV. Steve stumbled, caught himself, and then pushed the cart forward with a little more force than was necessary.

 

“Yeah, Mr. Charles Hoffarth. I’m okay,” he said through gritted teeth once they had cleared the doors. Bucky looked at him from over his shoulder and rolled his eyes.

 

“I didn’t steal it, if that’s what you’re thinking Stevie. And the money, it’s from a HYDRA account I raided back in September.”

 

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

 

“What? You gotta problem with funds disappearing from HYDRA coffers?”

 

“No, but –“

 

“And they never paid me for anything I ever did for them, so I figure it’s my fucking due if I want to use their dirty money to fix up the house.” There was a bit of spite, but also a bit of glee in Bucky’s voice as he spoke. Steve supposed he could understand it. It wasn’t a fair trade, not by any means, but well, if it gave Bucky some sense of satisfaction, who was he to take that from him. And if the money had been stolen from HYDRA, well, too fucking bad then. It had just been so surprising, and Bucky so nonchalant about the whole thing that it had taken Steve aback. But the more that he thought about it, the more he felt himself wanting to grin.

 

“Is there anything else you need to pick up while we’re here, _Charlie?_ ” he asked, as they started to transfer the items from the cart into the bed at the back of Steve’s SUV.

 

“Nope,” Bucky said, hefting up the last bag with his left arm. “That oughta do it, Stevie.” He was not repentant in the least.

 

“Back home then?”

 

“If you don’t mind. Unless there’s something you need?” Bucky looked at Steve, wanting to check.

 

“Nah, I’m good,” Steve said, as Bucky walked to the side of the truck and climbed inside.

 

Steve drove them back to 52nd Street, Bucky quiet during the ride, the fingers of his right hand drumming against the inside of his knee. It was not one of his usual tells, but he was nervous about something. Steve pulled up in front of the row house, shut off the ignition and then turned in his seat.

 

“Do you need any help getting this stuff inside?” he asked, studying Bucky. He had lowered his face, hiding behind his hair (that was definitely one of his tells) and wasn’t looking at Steve. “Buck? Are you all right?”

 

“Did you mean it?” Bucky spoke quickly, as if he was rushing to get all of the words out at once. “When you said you wanted to help?”

 

Steve leaned back in his seat, keeping his eyes on Bucky the entire time. “Yeah Buck, I did.”

 

“It’s messy work Stevie. Dirty and gross. And I’m sure you could have just hired somebody to do it instead of wasting your time doing it yourself.”

 

“I like to work with my hands, Bucky. And I like to keep busy, you know that,” Steve said gently.

 

“It’s ugly Stevie, and sometimes…Sometimes I get ugly doing it. The memories’ll hit, and it’ll get bad, and it can be real ugly.” He was mumbling now, obviously ashamed.

 

“You think I don’t know that, Bucky? You think I don’t know how hard this is for you? How difficult.”

 

“I’m not safe when I’m like that Stevie, and if you do this, you gotta promise me, _you have to_ , that you will do everything in your power to keep yourself safe.”

 

“I won’t hurt you Buck, I will never hurt you.” Steve told him. “But I promise you, I will make sure the both of us are safe.” Bucky still hadn’t looked at him, and was now picking relentlessly at a stray thread at the inseam of his jeans. “Do you remember what I said to you, two Septembers ago, back when this all started?” Bucky shrugged, still picking at the string. “I said it to you then, and I’ll say it to you now. I’m with you Buck, I’m with you ‘til the end of the line.” Bucky turned and looked at him, his eyes wide. Steve held his arm out. “Always with you, James Bucky Barnes, ‘til the end of the line. There’s no place I’d rather be.”

 

Bucky met his gaze, then glanced down at Steve’s arm, and then back up into his eyes. He reached out, and clasped Steve’s arm with his own, holding tight, sealing their promise, before he let go, nodded, and for the first time, invited Steve not just into his kitchen, but into his home.

 

***

 

Steve was here. Not just in his kitchen, but in the actual house, and Bucky, both parts of him, were trying to come to terms with that. He had asked, had invited him in, and he knew Steve was going to accept. It was still hard to wrap his head around.

 

But Steve was _safe_ , had proven himself to be trustworthy time and time again. And he seemed to have an intuition about what Bucky needed from him in order to remain so. Steve had always been a brilliant strategist, and an amazing captain, leaving everyone he met wide eyed and blinded by the mere brightness of his presence. But his attention had always been turned outward – toward the next bully, the next battle, the next enemy. He had never been very good at understanding emotional subtlety. Oh he cared, and more than probably anyone. But for all of his artistic attention to detail, he had never noticed the smaller cues, the threads that held together, the filling between the cracks. That had always been Bucky’s job, first as friends and then as his second in command.

 

But this, this was a new Steven Rogers, a different Stevie.

 

It had been a lark, that day during their run, to fall a step behind and let Steve take the lead. Let him take charge and burst forward, like he always had even when he should have known better. But Steve had been…respectful. He had looked over his shoulder to confirm with Bucky that he was okay, and then set up a strong and challenging pace, while maintaining Bucky’s need for unpredictability. And every time they met, he seemed to have a better grasp of what Bucky was or wasn’t able to give. He knew when to press (slightly) and when to poke (very carefully.) But he also knew when to joke and tease, and how to give back any shit Bucky decided to throw at him. And he never attempted to violate Bucky’s privacy.

 

So, respectful. And intuitive.

 

It was enough to make the two parts of him even more comfortable with Steve than they had ever been before. And those parts, which were not so separate anymore, but more like a gradient, a shifting from light to shadow across the floor, were even more curious, and starting to _want, want, want_ even more. Maybe they were both starting to realize that he was probably going to need more help than he had originally thought, and if this process, this healing was going to happen, Steve was the only one who was strong and patient enough to help Bucky do it.

 

So, Bucky had invited him in.

 

Steve was quiet as he followed Bucky up the stairs and through the front door, their arms laden with bags, patient while Bucky paused and let his senses scan the floor ( _quiet, not-disturbed, no intruders, still safe_ ) and then past the kitchen, toward the stairs that led to the upper rooms.

 

Just like Bucky, he skipped the third and seventh steps as they made their way up and he couldn’t help but wonder if Steve was just following his lead or if he too remembered that they always creaked. He could feel both Steve’s curiosity and his eagerness as they continued to ascend, ignoring the second floor for now, and up to the third. Bucky decided to test his theory and used his long legs to skip both the fifth and sixth steps. Behind him, he felt Steve only skip over the fifth. Memory then, and not mimicry.

 

“This way,” he muttered as stepped from the landing and into the hallway, cocking his head toward the first bedroom door. Not the one at the end of the hall, his room, not there, not there, probably never in there, but still deep within the heart of the house. He pushed the door open, which he had deliberately left half an inch away from the frame, and gestured with his head for Steve to step inside.

 

“It looks good, Buck,” Steve said, as he moved into the room. “I mean, the place is still rundown, but you did a real good job with the cleaning. It looks nice.”

 

“It should.” Bucky followed him into the room and headed for the corner where, crouching over, he started to deposit all of the boxes and bags. “Took me three fucking weeks.” He wiped his palms on his thighs, and then straightened and waved at the room around him. “So this is what I’ve done so far. I’ve pulled all of the linoleum from the floors and the hallway, and scraped and washed the walls in both of the bedrooms on this floor, and one of the three downstairs. I still got two more to go down there, and I haven’t even figured out what to do with the bathrooms yet. But I thought if I sanded and then varnished the floors up here, and gave each room a coat of paint, it’ll start to look nicer, and feel more like a home maybe.” He shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans and shrugged, all of the while watching Steve as he looked around the much cleaner, but definitely stripped room. “I mean, I know you got other stuff to do, but maybe a couple of hours each day…It-it would really help.”

 

“Buck, I told you, I don’t mind. I actually want to do this.” Steve had finished his study, and was now staring at Bucky directly, meeting his gaze head on. “I actually think it’ll be kinda fun.”

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Yeah Buck, I do.” Steve smiled at him, a smile that was easy and familiar and remembered. It said _Okay Buck, let’s do this. The two of us, yeah? We’ve always been able to take on the world._ “When do you want to start?”

 

And maybe this wouldn’t be so bad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To everyone who has taken the time to leave a comment, thank you so much. Each one of them has been treasured and greatly appreciated. I would give you all chocolate if I could. So thank you, thank you, thank you.
> 
> And I want to give another shout out to my beta Merry_rf. She's been doing amazing job, and her feedback has been spot on. I can't thank her enough. **hugs**


	8. Chapter 8

Working on the old row house with Bucky was…strange. Strange to be working next to this man for hours every day, when he had spent over a year trying to chase him down. Strange, because he was still Bucky, and yet he wasn’t. Strange because Steve had to learn the new steps to this dance, and he needed to make sure he got them right. Bucky could be mercurial, easy going and talkative one day, quiet and withdrawn the next, and Steve never knew which Bucky was going to greet him when he opened the door to Steve’s knock. But Bucky always stepped aside and let him into his house, and just his presence soothed something in Steve and made him look forward to each day.

 

Bucky hadn’t lied when he said the work was dirty and exhausting. But it was good work, steady and predictable, and Steve enjoyed it more than he thought he would.

 

If only Bucky was as steady and predictable. It didn’t take long for Steve to see what Bucky had meant, about how it, he, could get bad, and ugly.

 

It could get so fucking ugly.

 

The first time it had happened, they had been working on the second bedroom, doing the delicate work of hand sanding the floor in the corners that were too sharp for the sander to reach, where decades of paint had dried into hard and unforgiving chunks. Steve had sat back from where he had been kneeling on his hands and knees, popped his back and was just about to reach for a new sheet when he noticed the lack of any sound coming from Bucky’s corner. He turned to look over and saw Bucky crouched over himself, his elbows pressed into the floor, his hands clenching his hair and his entire body shaking.

 

“Bucky?” he asked quietly, shifting on his knees to move forward. Faster than a gunshot, Bucky’s left arm had straightened and lifted, the plates shifting, a knife that Steve hadn’t known was there poised in his fingers, perfectly aimed and ready to be thrown. The rest of Bucky’s body was still on the floor, still curled over itself, but that arm was perfectly still, perfectly ready to protect, the blade a warning, but only for now, and if only Steve didn’t back off.

 

“Okay Bucky, okay,” Steve said softly, keeping his hands up and shifting away, letting his body slouch back against the wall, proving he was no threat. The blade remained where it was, but as long as Steve didn’t move, the arm remained still, silent now.

 

The fit or flashback or whatever it was lasted just a little over an hour, when suddenly the knife clattered to the ground, the shaking stopped, and Bucky collapsed against the floor.

 

“Bucky? Are you all right?” Steve asked. “Buck?”

 

It took a minute, then another, before Bucky gasped deeply and then lifted his head, looking at Steve.

 

“Stevie?” His voice was a childlike whisper that broke Steve’s heart.

 

“Yeah Buck, it’s me. Are you all right?”

 

Bucky slowly looked around the room, carefully, studying all of the details, as if he needed to verify where he was, when his eyes fell upon the blade and he gasped again.

 

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He was suddenly sitting upright, his eyes wide, shadowed, but with all of his focus on Steve.

 

“No Buck, you didn’t. I’m fine.” Steve assured him, but Bucky didn’t look convinced. “I promise you Bucky, I’m okay.”

 

“What happened?”

 

“We were working, and you got real quiet all of sudden. When I looked over, you were on the floor shaking. I was getting up to go check on you-“

 

_“You can’t do that Stevie!”_

 

“I know, I know. You warned me off,” with your arm and a knife, Steve didn’t say, “and I backed up, and I just sat here and stayed with you, waiting for it to pass.”

 

“How long was I out?” Bucky asked, reaching for the knife, but then halting when he realized Steve’s eyes were tracking his movements.

 

“A little more than an hour, I’d guess.” Steve shrugged. It had been an hour and eight minutes. Sixty eight awful minutes of Steve’s life. “But then you stopped, and came to, and, well, here we are.”

 

“Yeah,” Bucky mumbled, hiding his face behind his hair.

 

“I gotta say Buck, that was kinda scary.”

 

“I told you it got bad, Steve.” Okay, so it was Steve and not Stevie. Bucky was trying to pull away. Steve wasn’t going to let him do that. He was going to prove to Bucky that he was here for him, no matter what, the good, the bad, and the ugly, the goddamned fucking ugly.

 

“Are they always like that?” he asked. Bucky shrugged.

 

“That one wasn’t so bad,” Bucky mumbled.

 

“Wasn’t so bad?” Steve couldn’t hide his disbelief.

 

“Was I screaming?”

 

“What? No, you weren’t screaming. You were shaking, but you were quiet. And then you just fell over, like I said.” Steve wanted to go over to him, to put his hands on him to make sure he was okay. By the way Bucky kept glancing at the knife, he didn’t think Bucky would let him anywhere near him just yet.

 

“Then it wasn’t so bad Steve.”

 

“They get worse?” Steve didn’t want to believe, hoped it wasn’t true.

 

“They get a lot worse,” Bucky shrugged. “And they can last longer too.”

 

“Jesus, Bucky.”

 

“So, you know,” Bucky shrugged again. He tended to shrug a lot when he was uncertain, while he hid behind his curtain of hair. “I’d understand if you didn’t want to keep doing this. I wouldn’t blame you at all. We can still go for our runs, but I think-“

 

“Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes, unless the next words out of your mouth are we should get a sandwich, which, yeah, let’s do that, I don’t want to hear it.” Steve snapped. Bucky jerked back at his words and their tone, and blinked at Steve. “It was horrible Bucky, I’m not going to deny that. But the worst thing about it was I didn’t know what to do, how to help you.”

 

“I don’t think anyone can help me, Stevie.” It was Stevie again; that was better.

 

“Bullshit Bucky. We’ll figure this out,” Steve said, rising to his feet, ignoring the way his knees and back popped at the movement after being still for so long. “Now let’s go get you a sandwich, because seriously, a pastrami on rye can fix anything.” He walked over, and deliberately gave Bucky’s right shoulder a light slap. He held his hand out to Bucky, but Bucky chose to ignore the offer, rising gracefully to his feet, somehow pocketing the knife without Steve seeing him do it, before he followed Steve out of the room.

 

Bucky sent him home less than half an hour later, after Steve had made him a sandwich and a cup of coffee, saying that he was exhausted and was just going to crash for the rest of the day. He wasn’t lying. Steve could see it in his face, how whatever he had been through had drained all of his energy. But he also knew that once he left, Bucky was going to try damned hard to keep Steve away. Steve was not even going to let Bucky play that game.

 

He knocked on the door the next day, a little earlier than he had said he would, and waited for Bucky to answer. He had called Senora Lopez before he left his apartment, just to make sure that Bucky was still there, hadn’t fled in the night, so he knew he was home. It took him longer to answer the door than he usually did, and when he finally did crack it open, dark circles under his bloodshot eyes, he was already speaking. “Look Steve, I don’t think-“

 

“Shut up,” Steve said, as he pushed his way through the doorway and then shoved the bag of breakfast he had brought with him at Bucky’s chest, forcing him to catch it. He didn’t go upstairs, did not violate the sanctity of Bucky’s safe space just yet. But he was damned if he was going to let Bucky lock him out of his home and his life for some misplaced sense of guilt. “Eat those.”

 

“You got…pork buns?” Bucky seemed confused as he opened the bag and took a look inside.

 

“Yeah, I did.” Steve headed directly for the kitchen, where he dug around the cabinets until he found the plates. “I went to the Half Moon Bakery special, just for them. Mr. Yuen cursed me out when you weren’t there, or at least I think he cursed me out, but he did put two extra buns in the bag.” Steve turned and put two plates on the rickety kitchen table. “Now sit your ass down, and give me half of those and let’s eat. And then we can go upstairs and get back to work.”

 

And that was exactly what they did.

 

***

 

It could still get ugly; it often did. The second time it had happened, they had been giving the floors in the third bedroom a finally scrubbing before they sanded the floors, when Bucky just stopped, fell onto his side and started shaking, his face blank.

 

Steve knew better this time. He didn’t try to approach. Instead, he put the scrub brush back in the bucket and slowly moved away, until his back was pressed against the wall. But he didn’t leave. Instead, he leaned back, brought his knees up and just sat and watched and waited, all of the while saying softly, “I’m here Bucky, I’m here. You’re safe and you’re not alone and I’m here and I’ll still be here when you get back. Don’t worry Buck, I’ve got your back. You’re safe and you’re not alone and I’m here.”

 

It lasted two hours that time, ending the same way, with Bucky collapsing on the floor, gasping and covered in sweat.

 

“Buck? You back with me Buck?” Steve called to him softly. It took ten minutes of Steve softly cajoling him, before Bucky groaned, rolled his head and stared at Steve, blinking blearily at him before he groaned again and nodded.

 

It took another ten minutes before Bucky was able to get to his feet and follow Steve down into the kitchen, where Steve made him another sandwich, turkey and ham this time, before he told Steve he was too exhausted to do anything else for the rest of the day.

 

Steve came back the next day with doughnuts.

 

So, ugly, awful, horrible, heartbreaking days.

 

But there were also days that were just as heartbreaking, because they were beautiful, amazing, and filled with grace.

 

Like the day they had removed the warped door from the second bedroom, almost as big as the room Steve had prepared for Bucky, and were scraping the paint from it, trying to determine if there was wood beneath worth saving or if they should just give up and get another door, when Bucky looked up, and out of the blue, asked, “Hey, do you remember old Gino’s cart, where we used to get shaved ice from? Two for a penny, wasn’t it?”

 

“Yeah Bucky, I do,” Steve smiled. He always smiled when Bucky remembered something from the old days; it made his heart feel fluttery and light. “You used to stop and get us some on the way home from school. You always got cherry and I-“

 

“Got orange,” Bucky said, and then he laughed. “You would get it all over your face, and on your shirt, and your ma would a pitch a fit over it when you got home.” And there went Steve’s heart, fluttering all over again.

 

“Yeah Buck, she would.”

 

Bucky nodded and went back to scrubbing at the door. A few moments later, he added, “Those were really good Stevie. We should get them again sometime. There’s a piragüero up on 5th and 49th. We should stop by there when it gets a little warmer.”

 

“Yeah, let’s definitely do that,” Steve said, and then paused. “Wait? A what?” Bucky just winked at him and went back to work.

 

Or the day when the two of them had finally gotten around to sanding the floor of the second bedroom when the noise of Bucky’s sander stopped. Steve flicked his off and turned toward Bucky to see him once again kneeling on the floor. Steve thought he was having another flashback and instantly started to worry. But this time Bucky was using both of his hands to hold back his hair, as he leaned over and actually sniffed the wood.

 

“Buck, you okay?” Steve asked.

 

Bucky just took another deep inhale before he leaned back with a smile. “Pine, it’s pine Stevie. My da used to come home smelling like that all the time.”

 

Bucky’s father had been a soldier in World War I, serving with bravery and courage that he had been recognized for. Once the war was over, he had come back home to work in construction, where before the unions had organized and there had been any safety regulations, he had died at a worksite accident. But he had loved his oldest son, and had spent as much time as possible with him, teaching him everything he knew as they worked on project after project together, always with Steve close by. Bucky hadn’t seemed to remember his mother or sisters yet, but as they worked with their hands on the house, doing the same work Bucky’s father had always been so proud of, it seemed as if Bucky’s memories of his da were slowly starting to return.

 

“Yeah Bucky,” Steve said with a smile. “He did.”

 

Beautiful, amazing, filled with grace days, that seemed to come out of nowhere and leave the both of them breathless, if for different reasons.

 

Two and half weeks into their work on the house, Steve fucked it up.

 

***

 

It was the third week in March, and the weather had been slowly starting to turn its way toward spring. But as tended to happen in New York City, a cold front had moved in from the north suddenly and was belting the city in a storm of icy rain and hail. Steve had decided to forgo their run that day, ignoring Bucky’s disgruntled grumbling, countering that they had spent enough time out in the snow and cold during the war, and they had plenty of projects they could work on, in a house where it was warm and dry, while the storm raged outside.

 

They were in the third bedroom, working on cleaning the baseboard molding before they finally sanded the floors. They had decided to try and preserve as much of the original details of the house as possible, and as the molding was well made and obviously hand-crafted, they were being careful in their efforts. The work was delicate and slow going, as they tried to remove the stains and extra paint, requiring a steady but delicate touch that didn’t destroy any of the intricate details.

 

But it was soothing, Steve thought as he knelt on his side of the room, his wall perpendicular to the door. Bucky was across from him, focusing on the panels just beneath the window, and he wasn’t in a very talkative mood today, but he was obviously relaxed as he focused on his work.  They were warm and dry, and the icy rain made a steady _plick-plick-plick_ sound that put Steve in mind of a lullaby as the drops beat against the windows. He had fallen into his own rhythm, and hadn’t been paying too much attention to Bucky outside of the constant awareness of his presence, when from across the room he suddenly heard Bucky’s breathing shift, and looked up to see him staring out of the window, frozen, his eyes blank. Steve had just put down his tools and was about to sit back, give Bucky his space, when once again, Bucky fell over himself, curled into a ball while still on his knees and started to make the worst sound Steve had ever heard.

 

It was a low, raw keening, that came from somewhere deep within Bucky’s guts. It was acid and blood, pain and agony, and knives, knives, knives, cutting open a spine. It was the howl of a wolf crying over its mate, the wail of an animal dying a slow, horrific death. It was a death knell and a plea for mercy, and Steve could not keep away.

 

“Bucky!” he said, rushing over to him, needing to do something, anything to comfort him, make that horrible, horrible noise stop. “Bucky, it’s all right. You’re safe. You’re here with me, with Stevie and you’re safe now.” Steve reached out and pressed his hand to Bucky’s shoulder.

 

Bucky crouched, kicked out, knocking Steve off of his feet, and in less than a blink, Steve found himself pinned back against the wall, Bucky’s metal hand wrapped around his neck, pressing, squeezing, choking him. The plates in his arm were whirring, shifting, pulling in together as Bucky’s fingers tightened, tightened, tightened around Steve’s throat. And Bucky’s eyes; they were cold, sharp and almost empty. Almost, except for the absolute fury that blazed out of them in blue fire.

 

“Bucky, stop,” Steve managed to gasp as he used his own hands to try and claw Bucky’s fingers away. “Bucky, it’s me, it’s Stevie.” He wrapped his own hand around Bucky’s left wrist and tried to push him away, push his arm back so he could get away. But Bucky - _no, not Bucky, this wasn’t Bucky, this was the Winter Soldier_ \- had been eating well for months now, exercising with Steve, and was stronger than he had ever been. And he was being powered by rage and fury and hate. “Bucky…let…go.” His grip only tightened, and Steve could feel the muscles in his own throat collapsing in on themselves beneath all of that unbelievably powerful pressure. Steve didn’t want to hurt him, but his vision was already starting to get fuzzy, and he knew that if he didn’t stop this now Bucky was going to kill him. He kicked out with his leg, aiming for Bucky’s thigh, but Bucky had crouched sideways, out of a direct line of impact and easily avoided Steve’s swipe.

 

“Buck...Bucky...please…” Steve gasped again, wondering if he could snap one of those metal fingers loose before Bucky crushed his hyoid bone, when suddenly Bucky spoke, in perfect Russian, his voice flat and cold.

 

_“Ya ne vernus.”_

 

Steve had never heard Bucky speak Russian before, but the sound of it was like a blade of ice in his bowels. Steve spoke English, and had learned French and German during the war, but not Russian. He had a few more words now thanks to his friendship with Natasha, mostly curses, but Steve thought he could make out the words _won’t_ and _go back_.

 

“No Bucky, you won’t have to, I promise you.” It was getting harder and harder to speak, and his lungs were burning, making their own wail at him, like they hadn’t since before the serum. “ _Please let go…it’s Steve…I won’t let them take you back…I promised…With you ‘til the end of the line, Bucky._ ”

 

Just like that, Bucky jerked, shuddered and the pressure from around Steve’s throat finally disappeared.

 

“Stevie?” he whispered, as Steve fell to his side and started gasping, heaving desperately for air. “Oh my god Stevie. Stevie, Stevie, are you all right?” Bucky reached for him, and Steve couldn’t help it, he flinched. Bucky saw and his eyes widened, filling with tears. “Oh no Stevie, what did I do? What did I do?”

 

“I’m okay…Okay…Just need to catch my breath,” Steve wheezed. Bucky stared at him, those blue eyes that just moments ago had been filled with rage and fury, now wide and wet, before he shook his head and moved forward again.

 

“Alright, alright, let’s get you lying straight. Make sure the airway is unobstructed.” His voice was flat again, but this time there was a distanced practicality to it as he moved behind Steve, took his shoulders in his hands and carefully laid him back on the floor. “Going to check your neck Steve.” He lifted his hand, his right this time, making sure that Steve could see, before he lowered it to Steve’s neck, where he carefully began to palpate the skin of his throat with gentle fingers. “Muscles swollen, skin red, indicating blood flow to the area is unimpaired. Swelling likely imminent. Hyoid bone still in position and intact.” Bucky leaned forward, turning his ear to Steve’s mouth. “Breathing heavy, but airway sounds clear, no lasting damage to trachea.” He sat back and reached for Steve’s arm, pressing the fingers of his flesh hand to Steve’s wrist. “Pulse elevated but steady,” a pause, “slowly decreasing in rate.” Bucky then leaned back, his hands outstretched, hovering but not knowing what to do.

 

“I’m okay Bucky,” Steve coughed, slowly rolling onto his side, using his arms to lift himself off of the floor, while he gasped and fought for more breath. “I’m okay.” He wasn’t, but he was getting there. His mind was in shock, trying to process everything that had just happened, while his body worked to regain its equilibrium. That had been unbelievably fast and brutal, and if not for the serum’s healing abilities and his own strength, he knew he would have been dead. No human could have survived that attack, and Bucky – _the Winter Soldier_ – had been intending to kill.

 

( _Protecting itself,_ Steve would remember later and curse himself. It had been the first thing he had realized about that side of Bucky. That it wanted to protect itself, and not…not go back to whatever torture it, _he_ , had been reliving. Steve had forgotten that in his rush to help, and it had cost both him and Bucky. He would remember that and hate himself for it later. But at the moment all he could do was slouch against the wall and take great, heaving gasps of air.)

 

“Can you drink this for me, Stevie?” Bucky was crouched down in front of him, holding out an opened bottle of water. Steve held his hand up, silently asking for a minute, while he took a few more breaths. Everything was starting to settle, the serum already doing its work. His throat was sore and he knew there would be bruising around his neck tomorrow. But he could breathe and, as Bucky had observed, his heartbeat was returning to normal. Steve held out his hand for the water bottle, which Bucky gave him, before he took a few steps back and crouched on the floor, carefully studying Steve.

 

“I’m okay Bucky.” His voice was a bit raspy, sounding more like Bucky’s usually did than his own, but after a few desperate gulps of water, he knew it would be back to normal. “I’m all right. What about you? You doing okay?”

 

“I wasn’t the one who was almost strangled to death.” Bucky’s voice was trembling. “I almost killed you Stevie, I almost killed you.”

 

“I’m okay Bucky, I’m okay.” Steve looked at him; he was practically shaking with his efforts to keep still. “Yeah, it was a shock. But you were having a fit, and I wanted to shake you out of it. I reached for you and you snapped.” Bucky was shaking his head, his hair hiding his face, refusing to look up. “Bucky look at me.”

 

“I almost killed you Steve.”

 

“But you didn’t. You didn’t. Listen to me. _Listen to me, Bucky._ ” Steve moved forward, trying to get closer. Bucky shook his head and scampered backward. “You didn’t. You didn’t. You stopped, okay? I called your name and you stopped. I’m going to be okay Bucky. I promise you. I’m all right and we’re okay.”

 

But they weren’t. Bucky would not let Steve get any closer to him. He insisted on fussing over Steve, from a distance, making him drink tea with honey and lemon, and then forcing him to eat a bowl of soup, all while he stood across from Steve in the kitchen, his arms crossed and hunched in on himself. Steve drank his tea and ate his soup, inwardly sighing. This was a minefield they had walked into, and if Steve was honest, he didn’t know how to handle it. They couldn’t just stumble blindly, that much was obvious, but Steve was not going to let Bucky shoulder all of the blame for this either. Steve shouldn’t have touched him while he was in that state; Bucky had warned him. But Steve could never have just left Bucky like that either, making that horrible sound that would haunt Steve’s nightmares for the rest of his life. He needed more information, alternative options so he would be better prepared next time.

 

So when Bucky suggested that they skip the next day, take a break and let them both settle, Steve agreed. It had been a rough day, and Bucky was definitely going to need some space. He could use that time to research, and maybe even talk to Sam to get a different perspective.

 

But Steve really should have known better. Because when he went back to the house two days later, at the agreed upon time, Bucky was gone.

 

***

 

**Steve Rogers to Pain in My Ass:** _Bucky, where are you?_

 

***

 

“Hola?”

 

“Hola, Senora Lopez. This is Steve Rogers. I’m calling because…”

 

“You are calling for your friend, si, I know.”

 

“Yes, Senora Lopez, I am. I stopped by today and he didn’t answer. Have you seen him?”

 

“No, I am sorry Captain Rogers. I haven’t. He is gone.”

 

***

 

**Steve Rogers to Pain in My Ass:** _Bucky, I’m really worried, please text me back and let me know you’re OK._

 

**Steve Rogers to Pain in My Ass:** _Bucky, please, just let me know you’re all right._

 

***

 

“Hola?”

 

“Hola, Senora Lopez. This is Steve Rogers.”

 

“Hola, Captain.”

 

“I’m calling to see-“

 

“I know, Captain Rogers, I know. I am so sorry, but he has not come back.”

 

***

 

**Steve Rogers to Pain in My Ass:** _Bucky, this isn’t funny anymore, I’m starting panic. Please just text me back._

 

**Steve Rogers to Pain in My Ass:** _Bucky, where are you?_

 

***

 

“Hola?”

 

“Hola, Captain Rogers. And no, before you ask, he has not come back yet.”

 

***

 

**Steve Rogers to Pain in My Ass:** _Please Bucky. Please. Just one word. One text, that’s all I’m asking for._

 

**Steve Rogers to Pain in My Ass:** _Please Bucky, come home._

 

***

 

“Hola, Captain Rogers.”

 

“Hello, Senora Lopez, I’m just calling…Just calling to check.”

 

“Ay mijo, I am so sorry. There is still nothing. I wish I could tell you more, but the house is still empty.”

 

“Okay, Senora Lopez, but thank you.”

 

“You’re very welcome, Captain Rogers. And don’t worry. I promise you, as soon as I see anything, I will let you know.”

 

“Thank you. You don’t have to do this, but thank you so much.”

 

“It is no problem, mijo. I am so sorry. I hope he comes back to you soon.”

 

***

 

**Steve Rogers to Bucky:** _Bucky, please._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, to everyone who has kudoed or commented so far, thank you so much! Each one, each and every single one, is so, so, so appreciated. Last time it was chocolate, this time it'll be cookies. =)
> 
> Also, I apologize for any unintentional abuse of the Russian language. Hopefully, it wasn't that bad.


	9. Chapter 9

Bucky waited two weeks before he went back to the row house.

 

Two horrible, long, desperate weeks, running, running, running. But he had not been able to outrun himself.

 

He had hurt Steve. _He had hurt Stevie._ And his mind, both parts of it, had shrieked and screamed and clawed at him. The one person he had never wanted to hurt, and in less than two and half weeks of constant, close proximity, he had almost crushed his throat. He hated himself, hated Steve too, if he were honest, for putting himself so close to danger. But he had done it, and there was no escaping that.

 

So he’d had to get away, as far away as he could, until his mind had finally quieted, somewhere in Atlanta. He stopped running and thought and then came to a decision, one whose logic was inescapable, and decided to head back to Brooklyn.

 

He timed his visit carefully, matching it to when he knew the old lady from across the street would be walking her dog. As soon as he saw her and her little brown poodle mix of some sort make their way down the street, he pulled the chain with his key on it from around his neck and went back into the row house.

 

He wondered if he would have time to take a shower before he gathered his things. He was again dirty and grimy, and he was going to miss that shower. One last go, for old times’ sake, before he was out on his own again.

 

Steve didn’t even give him eight minutes, before he was there, pounding on the door.

 

“ _What the fuck Bucky?_ Where the hell have you been?” Steve was furious as he pushed his way inside as soon as Bucky unlocked the door. He stormed into the foyer and then turned around, pinning Bucky with his gaze.

 

“I’m sorry, Steve,” Bucky said, unable to meet Steve’s eyes.

 

“Sorry? You’re sorry? Do you have any idea what I’ve been through these past two weeks while – “

 

“I do Steve, I do. That’s why I’m leaving,” Bucky told him.

 

“Leaving?” That brought Steve up short. “What do you mean, leaving?”

 

“Yeah Steve, I’m leaving. If you just give me five minutes to grab my things, I’ll get out of your house and leave you alone.”

 

“My house? My house? Bucky, what the hell are you talking about?” Steve’s voice was rising again, from where it had faltered just a few seconds ago.

 

“I’m not safe to be around, Steven. It’s best if I just leave.”

 

“Not safe to be around? What the hell are you talking about?” Steve demanded.

 

“I almost killed you, Stevie!” Bucky had had enough. It was obvious that he was a danger to everyone around him, and it was best if he just left Steve alone so that he would be safe.

 

“And that was my own damned fault!” Steve yelled back at him.

 

“What? What the hell are you talking about? You weren’t the one who had your hand around someone’s throat!”

 

“But I was the one who didn’t listen,” Steve pressed, coming forward. “You warned me Bucky, back at the very beginning you were very clear about how I had to be careful, and keep myself safe. And I didn’t listen.”

 

“And why the hell didn’t you?” They were shouting at each other, both of them furious, their nerves at a breaking point. But Steve was the strong one, had always been the stronger out of the two of them, because he pulled himself back and took a deep breath before speaking again.

 

“Because you were in pain Bucky,” he said, “and I couldn’t just leave you there like that. The sound you were making Bucky, it was awful, that sound. I couldn’t just leave you there like that while you were in so much pain.”

 

“You don’t pet a wild dog when it’s in pain Stevie,” Bucky told him. “You put it down. You end its life. That’s what you do. And it’s a mercy.”

 

“Or,” Steve said, calmly, gently, his voice implacable. “You try to help it. You keep it company and try to let it know that it’s safe. That it’s not alone.”

 

Bucky snorted through his teeth and shook his head.

 

“And you’re not a dog, Bucky. Or an animal. You’re somebody has been through some really, fucking horrible shit. Against your will and given no choice,” Steve went on. “And you’re trying, you’re trying so damned hard to get yourself back together. You’re the strongest person I know, James Buchanan Barnes, and if you think I’m going to let you walk out of here because you think you deserve to be punished, to have your home taken away from you, when you’re really just starting to become all you can be, you’re out of your fucking mind.”

 

“I still hurt you Stevie.” Bucky shook his head, unable to let that point go.

 

“And I was fine the next day, Bucky, which you would have known if you had answered any of the millions of texts I had sent you. Hello, super soldier and magic serum, remember?”

 

“It doesn’t change the fact that I did it.”

 

“And it doesn’t change the fact that it was still my fault. I shouldn’t have touched you when you were like that. You were just trying to defend yourself. I’ll know better the next time.”

 

“There isn’t going to be a next time Stevie.” Bucky argued. “I’m not gonna put you at risk like that –“

 

“Here’s the other thing you need to remember Bucky.” Steve went on as if Bucky hadn’t spoken. “You had me pinned to the wall, and your hand around my throat – and yeah, you’re damned fucking strong, probably the only person in the world strong enough to have pinned me like that, shut up Buck and let me finish.” Steve raised his hand at Bucky shaking his head. “But you stopped. You stopped Bucky. It took you a minute, but I called your name, and you stopped. Remember that Bucky, if you refuse to remember anything else.”

 

Bucky didn’t know what to do with all of this, with any of it. It was too much kindness, too much compassion, from the one person in his life he had always held so very dear. He shook his head again, and then walked into the living room, pacing back and forth a few times, before the shaking of his knees was too much and he had to stop and lean back against the wall.

 

“I just don’t want to hurt you Stevie. I don’t ever want to hurt you.”

 

“Then don’t leave like that again Buck. Don’t just disappear. I was outta my mind with worry while you were gone.” Steve had come into the room, and was now leaning with his shoulder on the wall, staring at Bucky. “I know I can’t stop you, and I know sometimes you need to run, but just…Keep your phone on. Text me back and let me know you’re okay. Or if you need me to come get you. Don’t just leave me in the dark like that again.” Bucky looked at Steve, really looked at him for the first time since he had burst through the door. There were no marks on his neck, but his eyes were bloodshot and had dark circles beneath them. His hair was a mess and he obviously hadn’t shaved in a few days. He looked as bad as Bucky probably did, and Bucky felt guilt rise at the back of this throat again, but for a different reason this time.

 

“Okay Steve. I’m sorry,” he promised. It was a small thing Steve was asking for, and after everything Bucky had done, he could at least give him that. “I won’t do that again. I’ll keep my phone on next time.”

 

“Thank you.” Steve sighed and ran a hand through his hair. “That’s all I ask for.”

 

“Okay.” Bucky nodded, still filled with fear and regret, but also relief, so much goddamned relief. He still had a house, and most amazing of all, he still had Steve. It was almost too much for him to believe, and his knees finally did give out on him, as he slid down the wall and onto his ass on the floor. Steve joined him less than a second later, not touching, but close enough that Bucky could feel his body heat, when he had been cold, so cold, for the past two weeks.

 

“Can I ask you something?” Steve said after a moment, his voice gentle but cautious. “What happened that day? What sent you over the edge like that?” Bucky sighed. He didn’t want to tell him, but Steve had a right to know after everything that had happened. It still took a while before he could swallow the bile rising at the back of his throat and find the words.

 

“It was the storm, I think,” he began. “It was cold and icy outside, and we were working, and I looked up and there was frost in the window. And I remembered looking through glass before, at the frost, in the cryo-tank, right…Right before they froze me.”

 

“You remember that?” Steve’s voice was a harsh whisper.

 

“Yeah Steve, I do.”

 

“But I thought…I thought they put you out before they froze you.” Bucky didn’t want to guess how Steve knew that. He had resources at his fingertips that Bucky couldn’t even begin to comprehend. He had to, to have been able to track Bucky across the country the way he had. He probably didn’t even know half of what Bucky had been through, but even a fraction of that was more than enough.

 

“Yeah well, I don’t know if your body works anything like mine does Stevie, but the drugs don’t usually last very long. It was enough to put me out, but not keep me out. And by the time they wore off, I was always already in the cryo-tank, so why bother with any more.” In spite of Steve’s heat beside him, Bucky started to shiver. He could remember it, would probably always remember it. Being strapped in the tank, staring out through the glass at all of those people moving around outside, not caring that he was there, that he was aware of what was going on, while the cold slowly rose up from the floor. Burning, burning cold, seeping into his bones, his blood,  his heart, while all of the while his mind screamed and screamed and screamed and screamed, before the cold took even that away.

 

"You said – you said to me _I will not go back._ ” Steve’s voice was shaking, rattling in his throat like a bird trying to break free from its cage. “Every time it happened to you, _you knew?_ ” Bucky turned to look at him, and saw that Steve’s face had gone ashen, and he was the one that was now trembling, as if instead of sharing his heat, they were now sharing Bucky’s eternal cold.

 

“Yeah Stevie,” Bucky whispered. “I knew.”

 

And before Bucky knew what was happening, Steve threw himself forward and wrapped his arms around Bucky’s waist, his face pressing into Bucky’s stomach.

 

“ _I am so, so sorry, Bucky._ ” He was sobbing now, heaving great, gasping sobs against Bucky’s body. “I didn’t know. I swear to you, I didn’t know. If I had, I would have come for you, and nothing would have stopped me. Nothing. But I didn’t know you were still alive. I swear to you I didn’t know, _and I am so, so sorry._ So sorry that you had to go through that and no one came for you. But I didn’t know Bucky, _I didn’t know._ ”

 

“Hey, hey, hey Stevie, it’s okay, it’s all right,” Bucky said, while in his lap Steve continued to shake and sob. He reached out and placed his hand in between Steve’s shoulders, pressing gently, rubbing the spot in smooth, even circles. It had always comforted Steve, he remembered. And he thought that they had probably done this before for each other, long ago when one of them needed comfort. When Steve’s mother had died maybe, taken from both of their lives way too soon. And Steve for Bucky, when the foreman had come and told him and his mother that his father would not be coming, would never come home ever again. They had clung to each other and held on for their very lives, when the world had crashed around them time and time again. It had worked then, and Bucky hoped it would work now, as Steve murmured and cursed and cried while clinging to him.

 

“Shhh Stevie, shhhh,” he soothed and hushed. “It’s okay, we’re okay. Shhhh.”

 

Eventually Steve stopped, his sobs falling quiet, even though he still trembled and shook from where he was curled around Bucky. Bucky let him stay there for as long as he needed to, before Steve finally sat up and wiped his eyes with the back of his sleeve as he leaned against the wall.

 

“You all right?” Bucky asked him

 

“Yeah Bucky, I’m okay now,” Steve said. “Sorry ‘bout that.”

 

“Now who’s being an idiot?” Bucky nudged him with his shoulder.

 

“Asshole,” Steve snorted.

 

“Dumbass,” Bucky snorted right back. They fell quiet after that, the both of them too wrung out to do anything else. But it was an easy quiet, comfortable as it had always been between them.

 

“Do we look as bad as I feel?” Steve was the first to break the silence.

 

“Probably,” Bucky was able to admit. Then he was struck with an idea, another memory, but not a bad one. “But probably not as bad as the Batty Bedfords.”

 

“Oh god,” Steve gasped. “I haven’t thought of those two in ages. The sisters, what were their names?” Steve was following the memory of the two women who used to hang out in an alley in their old neighborhood, as batty as their nicknames.

 

“Crazy Caitlin and Mad Old Mary,” Bucky provided.

 

“That’s right, that was them. What was their shtick?”

 

“If you gave Mad Old Mary a nickel, Crazy Caitlin would lift her skirts and show you what was beneath. Biggest fucking rip off.”

 

“I wouldn’t know. I never gave them any of my money,” Steve said.

 

 _Uh-huh_ , Bucky thought. _I just bet you didn’t pal._ “Yeah well,” he went on instead. “I did. Gave up candy for a week so I could give my nickel to Mary. When I did, Caitlin lifted her skirts, and right there, dead center, she had stitched a picture of Teddy Roosevelt to her knickers.”

 

“It was Jimmy Walker.”

 

_Gotcha._

 

“Uh-huh.” Bucky did say it this time, while raising an eyebrow as he looked at Steve. “And how do you know that?” Steve met his gaze, and then suddenly the two of them were laughing, giggling, leaning against each other as if no time had passed between them, and they were still those two boys running wild on streets of Brooklyn. It felt good to laugh after everything that had passed between them during the past thirty minutes. A relief to let go and find that there were still things that were funny in this sometimes horrible world.

 

“I still wanted my money back after,” Bucky grumbled when they had finally stopped, only to find that his words set them both off again.

 

“Are you hungry?” Steve asked once the second wave had passed and they had again quieted. “Because I swear to god, I could murder a bacon cheeseburger right now. Two of ‘em.”

 

“Starving,” Bucky agreed. He felt better than he had in two weeks, lighter somehow after all they had shared.

 

“And a bottle of whiskey. I would kill to be able to get shit-faced right now. Can you still get drunk?”

 

“Nope,” Bucky said. “Can you?”

 

“Nope.”

 

“Fucking serums.”

 

“Fucking serums,” Steve agreed, and then nudged his shoulder. “So tell me, do you know of any diners in the neighborhood that serve bacon cheeseburgers?”

 

“Not only do I know a diner Stevie, I know the best fucking diner in all of Brooklyn. And they serve _double_ bacon cheeseburgers.”

 

“Well then, what are we waiting for?”

 

“Just give me a few and let me grab a shower. Cos I think I stink, and I need a shave.” Bucky slowly rose to his feet and held a hand out to help Steve up.

 

“Ain’t no thinking about it Buck,” Steve said, taking the hand that Bucky had offered.

 

“Punk.”

 

“Jerk,” Steve said, smiling at Bucky for the first time that entire evening. “We good, Bucky?”

 

“Yeah Stevie,” Buck smiled back. “We’re good. Just give me ten.”

 

Steve did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, I want to thank everyone who has either commented or kudo'd. Each and every single comment makes me smile. So, as thanks, here - have some of Bucky's favorite pork buns. =)


	10. Chapter 10

So they went back to it.

 

Steve showed up bright and early the next morning so they could go for their normal run, and then practically dragged Bucky to Senora Perez’s bakery where he insisted that Bucky get double his usual order of churros, and that _damned sock coffee_ he swore only idiots with no sense of taste would drink. Since he also ordered twice as many churros himself, which he devoured almost as quickly as Bucky did, Bucky thought Steve was one to talk.

 

“You’ve lost weight, Buck,” Steve said as they walked back to the row house. “That’s not good. You gotta make sure you eat enough.” Bucky would have argued, but his mouth was full of churro and Bustelo, and his stomach was in agreement with Steve.

 

They finished sanding the floor in all of the bedrooms, pulled up the ratty carpet in the hallway, and sanded those floors too. Steve drove them back to Home Depot so they could purchase the items on the list of supplies they had compiled. They stained then finished the floors. It was still grueling and sweaty work, but something had once again shifted between them, and they were even more comfortable in each other’s presence than they had been before.

 

That wasn’t to say it was easy. Bucky still had his episodes, when the rhythm and repetitiveness of what they were doing opened the door for the memories to pour through, some pleasant, and some really bad, although none so bad as the recollections of being frozen. 

 

But Steve handled it differently now. He never reached out to touch Bucky during one of them again, but he always stayed in the room while they were happening. Bucky would come to, to Steve’s soft and steady voice saying the words ‘ _I’m here Bucky, I’m here. You’re safe and you’re not alone, I promise you,_ ’ over and over again. Steve would wait until Bucky would nod, before he would come over, crouching down in front of Bucky and gently ask, “Back with me, Buck?” Once Bucky had nodded, Steve would rest a light hand on Bucky’s shoulder, give him a slight squeeze, and then enquire, “What do you need?”

 

After the first time Bucky had managed to rasp out, “Water,” Steve started keeping several bottles in whatever room they were working in. After Bucky had returned from ones of his fugues, Steve would keep his movements deliberate, moving slowly, making his intentions very clear, helping Bucky to sit up and lean back against the wall, and offering him a bottle. Then he would just sit with Bucky and wait, not saying a word, offering Bucky his shoulder if he needed it, but never becoming offended if Bucky refused to be touched.

 

He was also the one who discovered that if Bucky ate after one of his episodes, he recovered from it quicker than he had been. Once Bucky was stable enough to stand, he would insist on bringing him to the kitchen, where Steve became very adept at making thick, cold cut filled sandwiches, which he insisted that Bucky eat, even if Bucky felt too nauseous to keep any food down.

 

But he was right; the food helped to ground and center him, and even though Bucky was never up for going back to whatever project they had been working on, by the next morning he would feel well enough to start back up, when before it had sometimes taken him days to recover.

 

He also started to touch Bucky more. Never in a way that was intrusive or uncomfortable, but just physical touches that helped Bucky to remember that he was in the here and now. A clap to the shoulder, a pat on the back, a hand pressed quickly to the back of his neck as he placed a second sandwich in front of him. One time, the memory had been so bad Bucky had to scramble out of the room and to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before he was retching violently. Steve sat quietly just outside the bathroom door, and then handed Bucky a water bottle, before he went to the sink and returned with a warm, wet washcloth. When Bucky’s hands had been shaking too badly to even take it from him, Steve had knelt down next to him, and with a quiet and gentle efficiency wiped his face clean of the sweat, snot, tears and vomit. “ _They m-made me r-rip somebody’s h-heart out St-Steve, with m-my arm,_ ” Bucky managed to stutter, glancing at his left arm, before he leaned forward and vomited all over again, only bile and the water he had sipped coming up this time.

 

“Those motherfucking sons of bitches,” Steve hissed, but then his voice gentled as he came back with the rinsed washcloth and began to wipe Bucky’s face and neck clean again. “But that wasn’t you Bucky. You didn’t have a choice. You weren’t even there to make a choice. Because I know you Bucky Barnes, and if you could you would have ripped your own arm off before you did that to anyone.” So much faith, so much forgiveness, when Bucky knew it wasn’t deserved. But he wouldn’t refuse it, wasn’t strong enough, so he let himself be weak, and he let Steve care, and somehow they continued managing to find their way.

 

There were still bad days, and tsunamis of memories that made Bucky need to run, need to flee, like the one that had sent him scrambling to the bathroom. But he kept his promise to Steve, and always texted him, even with shaking fingers.

 

 **Bucky:** _OK. Safe. Need space. Back soon._

 

 **Stevie:** _Thanks for letting me know Buck. Check in when you can. If you need me to, I can come pick you up._

 

Bucky never did, but as long as he let Steve know he was all right, and texted him when he got back home, Steve would show up not too long after, not angry, only concerned.

 

And Bucky had to admit, it helped. The food, the small touches, the knowing that someone was waiting for him to come home, even talking about it afterwards, once Steve started to ask.  It was grounding and it was safety and it made the row house a home, someplace he wanted to be, and not just a shelter from the elements. And Steve was there now, more often than not, and for reasons Bucky was starting to accept and understand, that made it even better.

 

Of course Steve was still Steve, still bossy, still sneaky, and as manipulative a son of a bitch as he ever had been. He started making more and more demands, and insinuating his way even further into Bucky’s life. Small things at first, then bigger and bigger as he used his cunning mind to figure out what he could get away with, and then how he could get away with it.

 

The first was the couch.

 

Bucky had put off purchasing any furniture, even looking at anything, because he wanted to have all of the floors redone and the walls painted before they brought anything in that could potentially be damaged by the work they were doing.

 

A week after Bucky had blown off Steve’s suggestion that they start looking at furniture, he had pulled up in front of the row house in his SUV, a couch half resting, half hanging but carefully tied, in the truck bed.

 

“What the fuck Steve?” Bucky called from the top of the steps.

 

“A couch is what the fuck Bucky,” Steve called right back. “We need someplace to sit aside from that goddamned rickety kitchen table, and I found this at a flea market for cheap, so you don’t have to worry about your precious non-existent furniture getting ruined. We can chuck it when we’re done or move it into the basement. Now haul ass Sergeant, and help me get this up the stairs. I can carry it on my own, but the leverage would be all wrong.”

 

“Seriously?”

 

“Seriously. Now come on, get a move on, I’m double-parked.”

 

Bucky would never admit it, and certainly never to Steve’s face, but the couch was kind of nice. It was used, but in very good condition. And more importantly it was big and wide enough for two men of their size to sit comfortably side by side. But still, it was the principle of the thing.

 

Of course, after the couch it was the coffee table.

 

“Really Bucky, you have a problem with having a place to put your feet up when sitting on the couch?”

 

“Not with my shoes on!”

 

“Then start taking your goddamned shoes off. Seriously Bucky, do you keep those on even while you shower? You can take them off you know, you don’t always have to be prepared to run at the drop of the hat.”

 

“Shows what you know.”

 

They kept the coffee table.

 

Two days after that, it was the flat screen television.

 

“No, no, absolutely not.” Bucky tried to refuse as Steve carried the box into the living room and set it on the floor.

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because we don’t need to rot our brains watching that junk.”

 

“Well, it’s sure as shit already too late for your brain.”

 

“Steve –“

 

“Seriously Bucky, you’ve got the couch, and you’ve got the coffee table. Why not a TV too? It’ll give us something to watch when we’re done for the day.” Steve paused for a breath, and when he started to speak again, his voice was gentle. “Besides Bucky, sometimes after a rough day, nothing beats just sitting on the couch and watching something mindless on the TV. It might help you after a really bad day.” How could Bucky argue with Steve after that.

 

“You know you can hook them up to the internet now, watch all the damned cat videos you want on YouTube.”

 

“Really?” Bucky asked, and then wondered how Steve knew about his secret cat video obsession. But hey, that might make the damned TV worth it.

 

Next it was the kitchen table. Steve had been right, the table was crooked and it did wobble. But Bucky had plans for the kitchen. Undecided plans, but plans none the less. And he really shouldn’t have been surprised at this point, as Steve easily carried in a bigger and thicker kitchen table with a tiled surface.

 

“I don’t even want to hear it Bucky,” Steve said before Bucky could open his mouth. “That table is a piece of shit. This one’s big enough for the both of us, and we can spread your shit out on it while you try to figure out what to do next, and you won’t have to worry about spilling coffee on that goddamned computer of yours, that I know was stolen from HYDRA, and is so well coded and blocked that I can’t even figure out how to turn the damned thing on.”

 

“Trying to steal my porn Stevie?” Bucky grinned.

 

“Oh please,” Steve rolled his eyes. “Like I can’t find enough on my own. And you know what? This table is big enough for you to watch whatever porn you want and jack off under it at the same time, without having to worry about your sheets getting dirty. Now move that shitty table out of the way and help me set this up.”

 

“I dunno Stevie,” Bucky refused to be beat this time. “I gotta metal arm. I can jerk off a lot without my wrist getting tired. Don’t know if this table is sturdy enough for that.”

 

Steve dropped said table with a thunk on the floor, and stared at Bucky with wide eyes and his mouth open.

 

“Did you just…Did you really just say what I think you said?” he wheezed.

 

“Did you just drop the table and crack the linoleum even more?” Bucky asked, glancing down at the floor. “Jesus Stevie, I woulda thought Captain America had better reflexes than that.”

 

“Holy shit, I can’t believe you just said that.” Steve’s wheezing had turned into a gasping laugh, and then a snicker.

 

“Well, the arm’s gotta be good for something though, right?” Bucky added with a careless shrug.

 

“I guess so?” Steve sounded like he was asking a question, and then he shook his head. “Anyway, come on, help me set this up.”

 

“The only problem is the plates.” Bucky added about ten seconds later. “Every time I move my fingers, they shift, and the hairs get caught in between them. Stings like a sonovabitch.”

 

Steve made a noise that sounded like an _urk_ , and then dropped the table a second time.

 

But the worst, the absolute worst was when Steve made a unilateral decision and declared that Sunday was to be a day of rest. They were not going to work, they were not going shopping for any supplies, and they were certainly not going to run.

 

“Come on Buck,” Steve had pressed when Bucky had protested. “Everybody needs one day, just one day, where they do nothing but relax. Go see a movie or take a walk, not a run, but a walk in the park. Explore someplace else in the city. Find even more places to eat. It’ll be good for the both of us, to just have a day with nothing planned and figure out what you want to do.”

 

What Bucky wanted to do was run. Steve probably did need a day off, considering he spent time running with Bucky, training with the Avengers and then coming back to Brooklyn to work on the house. But Bucky really enjoyed running, and it helped him to settle in his skin, especially after a bad day or night filled with nightmares, so he agreed with Steve on Saturday, sent him on his way, and then got up before dawn on Sunday morning and went for a run on his own.

 

It wasn’t as fun as running with Steve, but it was still enjoyable, when the streets were quiet and dark. He patrolled the area, his only company an occasional car or a stray cat conducting their own tour of their territory. His body got the work-out it needed, while his brain needed to stay focused on his surroundings, so there was never the risk of his memories overwhelming him. It was good, it was steadying, and after the couch, the coffee table, the huge television and the stupid (but now perfectly even) kitchen table, Bucky was going to be damned if he let Steve take this away from him.

 

Still, he shouldn’t have been surprised when he stepped through his door just after sunset on the second Sunday, and found Steve standing there in his running gear, his arms folded across his chest and an eyebrow arched.

 

“Really Buck? You couldn’t just let it go? Not even for one day?” he asked.

 

“Nobody ordered you to be here,” Bucky said as he made his way down the steps and slid the chain with his key on it back under his shirt.

 

“As if.” Steve slapped his arm. “All right then Sergeant, come on, fall in line and let’s do this.” With that, Steve took off running, and Bucky followed him, just like he always did.

 

But for all of that, Steve was very good at keeping his own promises, and respecting Bucky’s boundaries. He never asked to go into Bucky’s bedroom, respecting the closed door even though he was obviously curious. And he was just as good, if not better, at keeping Bucky informed of where he was. He would always text Bucky if he wasn’t going to be able to make it to the house or for their run because he was working on a lead or the Avengers were getting called out. And he always texted Bucky as soon as possible afterwards, letting him know he was okay, that he was heading home. Bucky always found himself shaking with relief after he received those texts. He knew the Avengers were good, were the best, but still there was no one, _absolutely no one in the world,_ who would watch Stevie’s back like he would, if he was out there in the field. He wasn’t quite ready for that, but he thought he might be one day, and maybe even soon. But not yet. So he had to let Steve go out there, and do what he had been created to do, what his heart had been born for, and protect those who needed protecting from the world’s bullies, while he watched the news for updates and waited for an incoming text from Steve.

 

He had gotten one earlier that afternoon.

 

 **Captain Dumbass:** _Sorry B, can’t make it today. Got enough info on a lead to finally head out. Simple job. Should only be a few hours. Will text when done._

 

 **Bucky:** _Be safe Stevie._

 

 **Captain Dumbass:** _Always._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky and Steve want to say thank you to everyone who's commented or left a kudo. In fact, Bucky loves them so much he says you can have the couch that Captain Dumbass FORCED him to carry up all those front steps. Steve says Bucky needs to shut up, everyone knows he loves that couch, and to thank you all for the comments anyway.


	11. Chapter 11

It should have been a simple job. It was supposed to be a simple job. But as it so often happens, it quickly went to shit.

 

They had been following a lead Tony and Maria had discovered, about a mad scientist ( _and weren’t they always mad_ ), who was using illegally obtained biological materials to create some new kind of weapon. The exact parameters were unknown, but assumed extremely dangerous. After a few weeks of piecing together clues and tracking down leads, they had finally located his laboratory, hidden in an abandoned warehouse in Trenton, New Jersey.

 

Steve had ridden out with Tony, Natasha and Sam, with Maria driving their modified BearCat to provide back-up, going over their plans and coming up with contingencies for when they finally entered the warehouse.

 

No contingency could have prepared them for what they actually found.

 

In the underground lab, which was smaller than they had originally calculated, tied down to concrete beds with steel girders, were the… experiments. Nine of them, five male, four female, their bodies injected with some form of modified animal DNA that had transformed them into something grotesque and unrecognizable. They had been human once, and young, but where their hands and feet had been were now claws. They had huge rows of jagged fangs protruding from their foaming mouths, patches of fur growing from their skin, some striped liked tigers, others with leopard-like rosettes, and their eyes looked upon the world from cat-like slits. And they were, each and every one of them, roaring in fear and agony. It had shocked them into stillness, but they were the Avengers for a reason. They had quickly regrouped and pushed forward. Natasha and Sam had rushed the scientist, a Dr. Clarkson, while Steve and Tony had gone to assess the creatures lying on those beds.

 

Dr. Clarkson must have known they were coming and prepared for them. Or maybe he was testing them, because he had pulled a small remote control from his pocket, and with a click of a button, the girders had unlocked and the creatures were released.

 

Realizing they were free, the beasts sprang from their beds and started to attack. The Avengers, the other creatures, Dr. Clarkson, anything they could reach in a frenzy of fur, claws, and foaming jaws. They were as strong as the animals they had been fused with, and just as fast, but none of what had once made them human remained. They struck, tore flesh from bones, gouged abdomens, and went for the throat, always the throat. The small size of the lab made it a death trap, impeding Steve and his teammates' movements and limiting any action they could take. Steve had taken a clawed swipe to his cheek, which had sliced through his skin like butter and fractured the bone beneath. Another had managed to get a strike to his chest, bruising if not actually cracking his ribs, before he had managed to take two of them down. The one who had killed their creator had turned on Natasha, who was managing to hold it off. She reached for one of her shockers, but the battle was so chaotic she did not notice the one coming up from behind. Steve had flung his shield, knocking the beast away, and in that split second of movement one had been able to jump on Steve’s back, digging its claws in and tearing, before a blast from Tony sent it scrambling away.

 

The entirety of the battle had taken less than ten minutes. The doctor and all of the experiments were dead. Steve had the slashes on his back, the cut to his face, and bruised ribs. Sam had three gashes running down his thigh, a bleeding head wound, and punctures in his right knee. Natasha’s face was bruised and bloody, and she was clutching her own ribs as she looked around to survey the wreckage. Tony had fared the best of all of them, his suit protecting him from any damage. But even he looked shocked at the carnage around him, the deformed corpses that were still twitching, even in death. It was a shitstorm of blood, fur and twisted bone and they were standing in the middle of it.

 

It got even worse a little while later, when they discovered from the doctor’s own files that all the people he had used for his experiments had been teenagers. Young runaways he had found on the streets and convinced to come with him by promising them help and shelter.

 

They had limped away from the fight, victorious but knowing that they had failed. But they all agreed they needed a day off, at least one goddamned day, to go home, rest and try to recover from what they had seen.

 

Steve was stumbling from the car Tony had provided and into the door of his apartment building, exhausted, hurt and just so fucking glad to be home. His shield felt like it weighed a million pounds as he stumbled up the steps to his third floor apartment, ( _and why, why had he ever thought living in a building without an elevator had been a good idea?_ ) He knew he should have gone to the Tower for medical treatment, but his body would heal on its own. The only thing he really wanted was to crawl into bed and sleep for a week. He had just unlocked the door and pushed his way in when he realized that the lights were on and that someone was in his apartment. Before he even had a chance to step back and make sure everything was secure, a pair of hands had reached for his shoulders and were pulling him inside.

 

“Stevie, are you all right?” Bucky’s quiet, rasping familiar voice settled over him like a warm blanket, and Steve didn’t think he’d ever been as grateful for anything in his life. “Let me get a good look at you, are you hurt?”

 

“Hey Buck.” Steve’s voice was its own rasp as he stood in the inner hallway of his apartment and held still as Bucky slowly ran his eyes over every inch of Steve’s body.

 

“Jesus Christ, what the fuck happened?” Bucky asked just a second later, after he had finished his study.

 

“I’m okay Bucky, I’m all right.” Steve reassured him, so happy that Bucky was there that he didn’t even bother asking how he had gotten into the apartment. It was Bucky after all, and there had never been a lock that he hadn’t been able to pick, even before the serum and all of HYDRA’s training.

 

“Yeah well, I’m going to be the judge of that. Now c’mon, let’s get you inside and let me look you over.” Bucky reached past him to close and lock Steve’s door, unhooked the shield from off of Steve’s back with expert fingers and saw the slash marks on his uniform. “What the fuck Stevie? Your back looks like chopmeat.”

 

“You should see the other guy,” Steve said, trying to defuse the situation. Bucky was going to get mad, Bucky was going to get furious, and while he appreciated it, he just didn’t have it in him to try and calm Bucky down at the moment.

 

But Bucky surprised him. He stepped in front of Steve and stared into his eyes for a moment, doing a quiet assessment before he nodded to himself, and then once more walked around to Steve’s back, placing his hands on his shoulders.

 

“Okay, this is what we’re going to do,” he said, as he gently nudged Steve forward, guiding him towards his bedroom. And of course Bucky knew the layout of his apartment, of course he did. “We’re going to go to your bedroom, and I’m going to help you get out of that uniform. Don’t say anything Stevie, you’re going to need my help, because it looks like the blood has started to scab around it. Then you’re going to go take a shower and wash everything clean, and then you’re going to let me look you over and stitch you up.”

 

“Buck, I’m fi-“

 

“No arguments Steve,” Bucky ordered, and that was the end of that.

 

Bucky had Steve sit on the bed while he knelt behind him with a towel and bowl filled with warm water. He used the water and a washcloth to soften the dried blood and scabs and then to slowly peel the torn uniform off of Steve’s upper body. He had been gentle, oh so gentle, but it had still hurt. Then he had come back to Steve’s front and run his eyes over Steve’s body again, seeing the bruise forming on his ribs and the gash on his cheek.

 

“Are you going to need my help in the shower?” he asked, as simple as that, the offer sincere.

 

“Nah Bucky, I should be fine.”

 

“Right then, get undressed, take a shower and when you’re done, come meet me in the kitchen.”

 

Fifteen minutes later, after he had pulled on the cotton pajama bottoms, underwear and socks Bucky had left on the bathroom sink, (Steve hadn’t even heard him come in, but well, Bucky), Steve made his way into the kitchen to find Bucky waiting for him. He had turned one of the kitchen chairs around so its back faced the table, and he was placing a huge plate of steaming food on it that he pointed to as Steve walked in.

 

“Sit here and eat that, while I take a look at your back.” Steve sat and stared down at the meal Bucky had put in front of him.

 

“What’s this?” Everything smelled absolutely delicious. There was a yellow rice with small black beans, four huge pieces of grilled chicken breast, what looked to be fried bananas with a dipping sauce and a clear soda.

 

“Arroz con gondules, pollo, tostones y Coco Rico.” Bucky said in his perfect Spanish as he lifted his own chair from the table, positioning it behind Steve’s. He also pulled Steve’s well stocked first aid kit from one of the kitchen counters, set it down on the floor by his feet and went to work.

 

“Oh no, go ahead, make yourself at home. Please, I insist.”

 

“Shut up and eat Stevie.” Bucky ordered as he began to slowly examine the cuts on Steve’s back.

 

“Holy shit this is good!” Steve exclaimed after his first bite of food. It was perfectly cooked and flavorful, the textures of the beans and the rice forming an amazing combination on his tongue. The chicken was well seasoned, with a bite of lemon and juicy. And the... _(Tostones, was it?)_ , were crispy and savory, with a crunchy outside that surrounded a smooth, perfectly starchy inside. They tasted even better when dipped in the sauce, a combination of garlic, onions and vinegar.

 

“That, Stevie, is the house specialty from Casita Pepe, the best damned restaurant in all of New York.”

 

“The best damned restaurant in all of New York? And you’re just feeding it to me for the first time now?”

 

“You didn’t deserve it until now,” Bucky said and then sighed. “Okay, the wounds are pretty deep, but they aren’t bleeding and are already starting to close, so I’m not even going to bother stitching them up. I’m going to flush them with some saline, and then dress them and wrap up your ribs. Yeah, I know, they’ll be better by tomorrow, but it’ll still help you sleep tonight. I can’t do anything for the pain, aspirin will probably burn through your system too fast to be of any use, unless you’ve got anything stronger here?”

 

“I don’t,” Steve told him absently, not really caring as he focused on devouring the feast in front of him.

 

“Enjoying that are you?” Bucky teased, and then went to work. His hands, both of them, were simultaneously thorough and gentle as he flushed the wounds and then carefully patted Steve’s back dry, using steady strokes that managed to sooth the raw skin. Steve was on his last piece of chicken, and the final sips of the Coco Rico, a coconut soda that was surprisingly refreshing, by the time Bucky had finished bandaging his back.

 

“You wanna finish that last piece of chicken before I wrap you up?” Bucky asked with a wry amusement.

 

“It’s good,” Steve grunted.

 

“Yeah, I know.”

 

“Thank you for this, for the food. It’s probably helping more than anything,” Steve said after he swallowed the last piece of chicken, the only thing left on his plate. Bucky smirked at him, picked the dish up and placed it in the sink. He reached into the refrigerator and pulled out a small bowl, which he set in front of Steve with a fork. “What’s this?”

 

“Flan.”

 

“Oh my god,” Steve groaned. “I love you.”

 

Bucky snorted and then bent down to pick up an ace bandage from the kit. “Stand up and let me wrap you first, and then you can have that.”

 

“But it’s so good,” Steve whined.

 

“Don’t make me tell Senora Lopez that you were hurt and refused medical attention.”

 

“Fine, you asshole.” Steve complied, and rose from his chair, already feeling better, stronger than he had just ten minutes ago. Bucky had him lift his arms, and then he slowly started to wrap Steve’s ribs with the bandage.

 

“Tell me if it’s too tight.”

 

“No, it’s good, you’re good.” It was perfect; just the right amount of tension, but still allowing him movement. Bucky nodded and continued to wrap.

 

“You know, I didn’t know that at first, about the food,” he said quietly as he worked, his head lowered so that his hair hid his face, a sign that he felt vulnerable.

 

“What?” Steve asked.

 

“About the food, that it helped.” Bucky had reached behind him, pulling the wrapping across Steve’s back in another pass. “They never told me that.”

 

“They didn’t feed you?”

 

“Not really.” Another pass, another pause. “They would inject me with some energy and vitamin concoction and then give me protein drinks before they sent me out. They wanted me at peak efficiency for that. But I wasn’t allowed to eat food on my own, and they never gave me anything more than what they provided at the start of a mission. If I got hungry, it was because I took too long, and that was part of my punishment.” One more pass, one more wrap. “So I didn’t really understand about the food until you kept insisting that I eat all the time. Figured out that I wasn’t just hungry, but it made my body work better, heal faster. Didn’t know, until you told me. So I figured it would help you too. It’s why I brought it.”

 

Steve’s ribs were bruised and his back sliced to shreds, but even those wounds didn’t hurt as much as Bucky’s words. They had starved him, for seventy years they had starved him, using food as a punishment when a body that ran like Bucky’s, like Steve’s, would eventually collapse if it didn’t get enough food. Bucky spoke about it like anyone else would speak about the weather, thanking Steve for treating him like a human being and wanting him to eat. And it explained his obsession with food, trying everything he could get his hands on, and finding all of the best eateries throughout Brooklyn. Steve once again wanted to howl at the world, at HYDRA for doing this to Bucky, but he swallowed it down, swallowed it all down, and simply said instead, “It did help Bucky. More than you know. Thank you for bringing it.”

 

Bucky nodded and then finished tying off Steve’s ribs. He reached up, took Steve’s chin in his right hand and studied his face.

 

“Fractured?” he asked, eyeing the cheek.

 

“Yeah, think so. Not so bad anymore though.”

 

Bucky nodded. “Well, I can clean that up for you, pop a bandage on it just like I did your back, but you should probably finish eating first.”

 

“Oh, I can finally have my flan now?”

 

“Shut up punk. You’re lucky I even gave it to you. That stuff is gold, and I could have just kept it for myself.”

 

“If you had, I would have told Senora Lopez that you didn’t feed me, even after I was hurt, and that you kept all the food for yourself.”

 

Behind him, from where he had sat back down to gather together all the items from the first aid kit, Bucky made a _pfft_ sound. “You care a lot more about what Senora Lopez thinks than I do. Now Senora Rodriguez, she’s the one I worry about. Which is why I am never taking your dumbass to Casita Pepe. She sees the type of idiots I hang out with, and she’ll never feed me again. And I live for her chuletas Stevie, _I live for them._ ”

 

“Now you really have to take me there,” Steve said before he took a forkful of the flan. But then he shut up, because Bucky was right, the stuff was gold. Creamy, firm, caramel drizzled gold.

 

Behind him, Bucky was quiet as he rewrapped the left over bandage and carefully sorted the items in the kit. Steve was lost in the ambrosia that was his desert, when he was startled by the feeling of Bucky leaning forward and pressing his forehead to the base of his neck.

 

And it was so strange, to be touched by Bucky like this. Steve had started touching him more, figuring it would help to ground him, make him more comfortable with his own body. They were small gestures, light, quick, unobtrusive, never meant to startle or harm. If at any time Bucky radiated any discomfort or said something, Steve would have immediately stopped. But Bucky seemed to like the touching, leaning into it and not pulling away.

 

But he never touched Steve, not really. There was the occasional shoulder pat or hip check, but Bucky never reached out, never initiated anything. Steve didn’t know why; whether because Bucky didn’t want to, or if he felt uncertain about doing it due to his arm, or if this was just the Bucky of now, when he had always been such a tactile person in the past. Steve missed it, he really did, but this was about Bucky and not him. And Bucky didn’t reach, Bucky didn’t touch.

 

Today had been an exception. Steve had been injured, and Bucky had done what had been needed in order to take care of Steve and make sure he was okay. His touch had been gentle and knowing, but professional in its way. But Bucky had been waiting for him, had helped him undress, tended to his wounds and fed him. Steve was so damned grateful for it; to come home after the mission they’d had, and have somebody waiting for him, someone willing to just take care of Steve for a change, make sure of his safety and comfort.

 

And now Bucky was behind him, leaning into him, his skin warm against the coolness of Steve’s back, his hair tickling ever so slightly. He just sat there and held, not moving, not breaking their connection.

 

“You gotta be more careful, Stevie,” he finally whispered. “I’m not ready to go out there and watch your back yet, and no one is taking care of you. You gotta be more careful. You gotta keep yourself safe. You can’t keep throwing yourself into things without any care for you. Please Steve.”

 

“Bucky you know I-“

 

“ _Please Stevie, please._ ” Bucky’s voice never rose above its raspy whisper, but in its tones Steve could still hear the care, concern, worry, and yeah, he was starting to believe it, love, that had always been there.

 

And for the first time in his life, Steve decided to put one single individual’s well-being, one person’s happiness, over everyone else in the world. Bucky was worth it.

 

“Okay Bucky, okay. I promise you, I’ll be more careful. I’ll keep myself safe, so you can know that I’m always going to come back.”

 

Behind him Bucky was perfectly still for another moment, before Steve felt him nod against his back, and then move away. After that, Bucky stood from his chair, picked up Steve’s empty plate of flan, and proceeded to act as if the entire conversation they’d just had didn’t happen.

 

***

 

Bucky stayed with him that night, cleaning and bandaging Steve’s face, like he promised and then forcing Steve to go to bed. Steve had been asleep before his head had hit the pillow.

 

When he woke up, Bucky was gone. But his kitchen was clean, the supplies in his med kit replaced and it returned to its original spot under the kitchen sink. Bucky had gone so far as to clean as much of his suit as was salvageable, removing all of the blood stains and dirt. The pants, boots and gloves all looked great, but the back was shredded. He was going to have to ask Tony for a replacement.

 

Bucky had even looked after his shield. He woke to see it resting against the side of his bed closest to the window, where Steve always kept it when he slept. The front of it was gleaming, and Bucky had cleaned and tended to the strapping as well, removing all the grit and stains, and making sure the specially designed fabric was smooth and supple. Bucky had done as good and thorough a job as Steve would have, making sure to leave it where Steve would find it, where he would have instinctually reached for it if he had felt threatened by something in the night.

 

Steve sat up and yawned before checking in with his body to see how he felt. His ribs were a lot better this morning, and his cheek felt tender, but not too bad. His back, that was going to take the longest time, and he would have to lay off anything too strenuous for a few days. He would need to call and check in with Natasha, and visit Sam to see how he was doing. But first, he was going to get a cup of coffee and then walk over to the row house to see if he could talk Bucky into getting him some pork buns. He was really in the mood for them right now, could practically smell them in the air.

 

Steve padded into his kitchen, glanced around and stopped abruptly.

 

There, on the center of the kitchen table was a very familiar white bag. When he opened it, he found twelve pork buns, still steaming, waiting for him inside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as I said in reply to some of the comments from the previous chapter, this was one of my favorite chapters to write. I hope you enjoyed it as well, but either way, to everyone who has commented and continues to comment, thank you so much. Your words help more than you would ever know.
> 
> Also **lowers voice to a whisper** Bucky thinks I should post an extra chapter tomorrow, because it is Steve's birthday after all. So, you know, there may be that. =)


	12. Chapter 12

They went back to working on the row house.

 

Or at least for the first few days Bucky did, while he cursed at Steve every time he showed up at the door. He refused, absolutely refused to let Steve help or to even watch, saying if he had a flashback Steve was in no condition to defend himself if Bucky struck out. Steve tried to counter that had only happened the one time, but Bucky was not willing to take any chances.

 

“You just sit there on your big dumb couch and watch some goddamned TV, Stevie,” he hissed the first day, as he pushed Steve ( _gently_ ) down into the cushions. “I was doing this before you showed up, I can manage for a few days on my own.”

 

The second day, when Steve had come back, insisting he was feeling better and was _fine, Bucky, I’m fine_ , Bucky pushed him back onto the couch, stormed out of the room, and came back less than a minute later with three, thick heavy catalogues, which he dropped in Steve’s lap.

 

“Look through those and find some tile for the upstairs bathroom. I’m sick of looking at all of that ugly white shit. Find something nice. See if you can find a tub too. I think the one up there is beyond salvaging, but I’ve heard you can sometimes find restored ones online. If not, just something big enough. If I hear anything besides those pages turning, or you getting up to take a piss, I’m gonna come back down here and tie you to that couch.” Bucky crossed his arms and glared at him. “And you don’t want me to do that Steve. I learned a lot of things from HYDRA, and that includes how to tie someone up so they can’t escape. Even gorillas as big as you.” With that, Bucky turned on his heel and stomped back upstairs, leaving Steve sitting there with his mouth agape. That had been…a lot of words from Bucky. And he was certain that he meant every one of them, especially that last part.

 

So, Steve sat and flipped through the pages in the catalogues, actually losing himself in the task Bucky had assigned. An hour later, when Bucky came down to check on him, pleased that Steve had followed his instructions, he dropped a tub of brownies next to Steve on the couch and set out a cup of coffee for him.

 

Four days later, when Steve showed up outside of the row house at 8:42 at night, Bucky glared at him as he made the way down his front steps, dressed in his running gear.

 

“Oh look,” he snarked. “It’s America’s Big Chin of Stubborn Stupidity.”

 

“I’m fine Bucky.” Steve glared right back, his arms crossed. And he was. His ribs had healed, and the cuts on both his face and back had already sealed over into fading pink lines. The muscles were still a bit tender, but they were getting better every day and he was more than recovered enough for a run.

 

“You’re a dumbass is what you are.”

 

“Are we going?” Steve asked.

 

“Fine,” Bucky capitulated, but not happily. He didn’t let Steve lead this time though; instead he set a pace that was slower than their usual, kept their course easy, with no steep inclines or sharp turns, and ran half their normal distance. When Steve had complained, Bucky told him to, “Shut up, or I’m gonna tell Senora Lopez you said her dog has fleas.”

 

“She has a dog?” Steve was surprised, he hadn’t known that. Bucky rolled his eyes at him, and then insisted on walking him home, but not before they stopped for some amazing (and it was always amazing) Korean food on the way.

 

On the sixth day, Bucky couldn’t argue with Steve anymore, especially not after Steve had turned around, lifted his shirt and his presented his back for Bucky’s inspection. The wounds had healed to faint scarring by this point, and even those would be gone within a week.

 

Steve was thrilled. He really enjoyed their work on the house, not just because he got to spend his time with Bucky, although that was his favorite part, but because he enjoyed the work in and of itself. It was comforting, soothing, to do something constructive with his hands that did not involve fighting or warfare. He could just relax into it, focus on the task at hand, knowing his efforts were going toward creating something beautiful, something that would last, as well as giving life back to a place that had once treated him well.

 

And all of the while, he watched Bucky. Not overtly, although he knew Bucky was always very aware of his gaze on him, even if he didn’t seem to mind. But just to keep an eye on him, taking note of all the changes that had occurred over the past few weeks.

 

There were still bad days, and times when Bucky’s memories stole him from the present. A few really bad ones, but also a few really good ones as well. They did keep occurring, but not as often as before. And now that Steve had instituted his regimen of aftercare, which included food, comfort and a constant human connection, Bucky recovered from them more quickly than he had previously. Twice more he had fled in the night, but he kept his promise to Steve and kept in vague but consistent contact via text. Steve still worried, but not as much, and Bucky always came back within a few days, usually two. As long as Steve greeted him with happiness and concern, not anger or scorn, they were able to slide back to their usual rhythm within a day.

 

But the biggest difference was in Bucky himself. The more time passed, the more time Steve spent with him, the more _himself_ Bucky seemed to become. He was not the Bucky from before, less careless, less carefree, but he wasn’t all the sharp cutting edges he had been at the beginning. Those two aspects of him that Steve had first really noticed over coffee in the kitchen had fused together even more. He barely saw them as separate anymore, and usually only while Bucky was in the middle of a flashback, when the Winter Soldier rose like a spectre to wrap itself around Bucky like a cloak of protection. But even during those times, that part of Bucky’s mind seemed to accept Steve. It was more that they were both always there. He could see it in Bucky’s eyes, the icy blue cold precision of what he had been trained to be, and the warm intuition and insight of the man Steve remembered. They were together there in his gaze, a combined swirl of exactitude and human insight, indistinguishable now and, Steve had to admit, stunningly, strikingly beautiful.

 

Bucky moved with a feline grace, and his steps were always silent. Steve could never hear him unless Bucky deliberately wanted him to. Ironically enough, he had come to rely on that feeling at the back of his neck, that cold, deadly patience, that was just as deadly, but whose intent felt different now. As if…as if _Steve_ was now under its protection and would be shielded just as fiercely. Then sometimes Bucky would turn and make a comment or some jab, and it wasn’t Bucky’s older sense of humor, but something a little sharper, a little more caustic, and Steve realized that it was that side of Bucky, the Winter Soldier, that had made a joke, was maybe discovering humor and reaching out to test the parameters, Bucky guiding its shape and intent, giving him permission to be.

 

But the best parts of what had always been Bucky were still there too. His insight, his compassion, the core of his heart that had always been a caretaker. Twice more during those weeks Steve got called away on missions with the Avengers. And twice more, when Steve stumbled back into his apartment late at night, Bucky was there waiting for him, concerned and worried, and with food. Always food.

 

“What the hell is this?” Steve asked over the huge still steaming bowl of dark brown stew Bucky had placed in front of him. It was rich and meaty, with boiled pieces of corn on the cob, potatoes, yams, other root vegetables Steve could not name, and meat, lots and lots of meat.

 

“Sancocho con cinco carnes,” Bucky told him while he carefully tended the burn on Steve’s left shoulder.

 

“Casita Pepe again?” Steve asked.

 

“Yep.”

 

“Bucky, I don’t care what I have to do, but you have to take me there. This food is amazing.” Steve lifted another spoonful into his mouth and moaned.

 

“No.”

 

“No?”

 

“No. Now shut up Stevie and eat your soup. If you sit still and let me finish this, I might, just might, let you have the arroz con dulces Senora Rodriguez made special for me.”

 

Steve shut up and ate, while Bucky clucked over the wound, and the Winter Solider used his ingrained knowledge of the human body to carefully tend Steve’s burnt skin.

 

It – they – no, he, _he_ was one person now, fluid, serpentine and catlike. Quiet grace, perfect precision, but becoming playful too, sometimes rubbing up against Steve like a cat, for just an instant, before turning and sauntering away.

 

Steve was captivated.

 

And grateful. So damned grateful. Because Bucky was here, working with him side by side, and letting Steve witness his metamorphosis.

 

March rolled into April and then May. They were making good progress on the house. They had sanded, stained and varnished all of floors of the upstairs rooms, except for the bathroom, and had steadily completed the same on the second, steaming and then removing wallpaper –

 

_“Red velvet? Who the hell puts red velvet wallpaper on their walls?”_

_“I dunno Stevie. But let me tell you, if HYDRA knew about this, they would have never needed me. They could have just sat somebody in this room, and within an hour they would have killed themselves, just to save their eyesight.”_

_“…Bucky, did you just – “_

_“Shut up, Stevie.”_

 

– and linoleum –

 

_“It looks like a bunch of flowers puked in here.”_

_“Better them than us. Now hand me that scraper Stevie, before that changes.”_

 

– and then giving the floors the same treatment as the ones on the third floor.

 

They hadn’t painted the walls yet. Bucky had balked every time Steve tried to bring it up. Steve decided to leave it; they still had plenty of other things to do, and the paint could wait until almost everything else was finished. Steve knew better than to press when Bucky seemed so unwilling.

 

Until one day, in the middle of May, Bucky suddenly changed his mind. And surprised the shit out of Steve.

 

***

 

They were back at Home Depot, standing in the paint aisle, Bucky once again generously letting Steve push the cart. They had been there for over ten minutes, and had already stocked the wagon with brushes, pans, and rollers. But Bucky seemed to be having a hard time on deciding on any colors. He had finally selected a soft teal and creamy white for the third bedroom on the third floor, but couldn’t seem to come to any decision about the second one.

 

And he seemed off. He was fidgety and nervous, hiding behind his hair as he shot quick, cautious glances at Steve. He was obviously having a bad day, and Steve was wondering if he was going to have to call the whole thing off, just get Bucky out of here and take him for a run, which oftentimes was enough to calm him down, when Bucky stopped, sighed and looked down.

 

“Nothing grabbing you, Buck?” Steve asked gently. Bucky shook his head, shrugged and refused to look at Steve. “It’s okay if you can’t make up your mind now, we can always come back, you know.” Bucky nodded, but he didn’t move, just stood there, looking at the floor.

 

“It’s just,” he began after a long pause. “You’ve always had a real great eye for color Stevie. And the second bedroom, it’s a good size, almost as big as the one you gave me. And you spend almost as much time in the house as I do, and it’s stupid for you to keep going back to that apartment just to sleep when you always show up so early at the house, and the second bedroom could be real nice, and I thought maybe you should pick the colors, since it should be yours…If you wanted it to be.”

 

Steve was so stunned he couldn’t speak. He just blinked and opened and closed his mouth, once, twice, and then again. Bucky must have taken his silence as a refusal, because he shook his head and shrugged.

 

“It was a stupid idea Stevie, forget I said anything. Let’s just get out of here, yeah?”

 

“Bucky…Bucky, are you asking me to move into the row house?” Steve was finally able to ask.

 

“You don’t have to Steve. I mean I know the place is still a shithole and-“

 

“Don’t say that about our house Bucky.” Steve cut off Bucky’s mumble. Bucky looked up at him, meeting his gaze for the first time. “Bucky, I would love to move into the row house with you.”

 

“Yeah?” His voice was soft and still a little unsure, but it sounded so pleased.

 

“Yeah Buck, I would.” Steve knew he must have been grinning from ear to ear. He could feel the stretch of it on his cheeks, and the warmth of it in his heart. To have a home, not an apartment, and to be able to share that with Bucky – Steve would have given anything for that. He had wanted, but he hadn’t thought that it would be something Bucky was ever going to be ready for. But here he was, opening the door and laying the invitation at Steve’s feet. Steve was going to dance through that door.

 

“It’s still not going to be easy Steve. We got a lot of work to do, and well, there’s me. I’m not fixed yet either.”

 

“You shut your fat mouth, James Buchanan Barnes,” Steve said, stepping around the cart to approach Bucky, who stood with his shoulders back, face to face with Steve. Steve smiled and Bucky smiled back, still a little shy, but it was a smile none-the-less. “Bucky Barnes, I would love to move into that house with you. And I am so gonna paint the shit out of that second bedroom.”

 

Then Steve did something he had never done before. He held his arm out. Not his right, but his left. To show this man that was both Bucky and the Winter Solider that he trusted and accepted them both, that he trusted and accepted _him._

 

Bucky looked down at Steve’s arm, and then up into his face, a question in his eyes. Steve nodded just once. And then slowly, ever so slowly, Bucky reached out with his left arm, and grasped Steve’s own with his metal one, squeezing ever so gently. Steve returned the clasp. Beneath his fingers he felt the plates shift slightly, and then still. Except for a slight vibration, that wasn’t agitation, but more like a hum, a gentle purring.

 

As if they too were pleased and content, and wanted to let Steve know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky wanted to let you know that Steve really appreciated all of the birthday wishes and comments on the last chapter. He would thank you himself, but he's too busy stuffing his face with the birthday cake Bucky brought him. 
> 
> And in case anyone is wondering what sancocho looks like...
> 
> http://www.hitcooking.com/recetas/sancocho-mas-que-una-sopa
> 
> And as always, to everyone who has commented or left a kudo, thank you so much. I would feed you all sancocho if I could. =)


	13. Chapter 13

Of course Steve wanted to move in right away, of course he did.

 

After spending another hour and a half in the paint aisle, while Steve fussed over what colors to choose –

 

_“Oh god, I’m regretting this already.”_

_“Shut up Bucky and let me pick.”_

 

– until he finally decided on a soft grey that he wanted to accent with rich maroons and deep plums, they packed their purchases into the back of Steve’s truck and drove to the row house, Steve practically bouncing in his seat.

 

Over a lunch of sandwiches big enough to satisfy even their appetites, Captain Bossy McBossyPants started immediately making plans for renting a truck so they could haul Steve’s furniture over the very next day.

 

“Maybe you should wait until, I dunno, the room is actually painted before you make me haul all your shit up three damn flights of stairs.”

 

“What? And give you a chance to change all the locks?”

 

“Don’t tempt me Steve.”

 

“Speaking of which, we should probably head over to a locksmith after lunch so we can get a copy of the keys made so I can have my own set.”

 

“Ugh.” Bucky was really starting to appreciate the new kitchen table Steve had insisted on, especially since it made a very satisfying thud when Bucky thunked it with his head.

 

They agreed on five days. That would give them enough time to prime and paint the walls in the second bedroom, allowing for the paint to dry and any fumes to air out while Steve hauled Bucky over to his apartment so they could start packing up his things.

 

On the second day, Bucky tried something different. When Steve knocked and then used his key to enter the house at one o’clock in the afternoon after his daily visit to Avengers Tower, Bucky greeted him from the stairs wearing a short sleeve t-shirt. They were only using primer in the room today and not paint and Steve…Steve had reached for the arm in a gesture of friendship, solidarity, not hesitating for an instant. Bucky had been extremely careful to not reveal the arm to anyone. He wore long sleeves and gloves whenever he went out, and unless they were jogging, kept his hands in his pockets. Steve had seen his hand while they had been working on the house, but never the arm. This was a test, for each of them; could Bucky do this, and would Steve be able to accept it. But it was also a gesture of trust. This was the ugliest part of Bucky, at least externally, and he was showing he was ready to share even that with Stevie, if he wanted it.

 

Steve just looked at him, glancing quickly at the arm before smiling, and then said, “Hey Buck, ready to get started?”

 

He was going to be curious, going to ask questions and at some point he was probably going to want a closer look. But Steve was smart enough to allow them both time to get more comfortable with the idea before he pressed.

 

After that, whenever they were alone together, Bucky wore short sleeved t-shirts. He never wore tank tops; he didn’t think Steve was ever going to be able to handle the ring of scarring where the arm was fused to his shoulder, an uneven, jagged red line of thick, scored, ghastly tissue. He still had a hard time looking at it himself. But as the temperatures got warmer, it was a relief to keep his arms bare, both of them.

 

So over the course of the week, they primed then painted the room, (Bucky wore a long sleeved shirt for that. He didn’t need any paint splatter on the arm), boxed up Steve’s stuff (and Jesus, how many clothes did a single man need), picked up and packed the rental truck, and then unloaded all of Steve’s stuff in the row house.

 

And just like that, Steve had moved in.

 

It wasn’t easy and it took a lot of adjustments.  Captain Bossy McBossyPants was still bossy and Bucky still sometimes absolutely needed his space. But they adapted and figured out how to live together. If Bucky locked himself away in his room, Steve left him to it. But if Steve seemed to need company, and he was a much more social creature than Bucky was, Bucky made sure that Steve knew he was there for him. Even if it was just sitting with him downstairs in the living room, which now had another L-shaped, sectional couch, a better coffee table, and a goddamned Lay-Z-Boy chair, which okay, Bucky _really loved_ , reading while Steve sat and did research on his tablet or grumbled to himself about some injustice of the world. That seemed to be enough to calm and settle Steve until he was finally able to relax, sit back and just let it go.

 

Bucky noticed that Steve had been pleasantly surprised to discover that Bucky still loved to read, and sometimes they ended their nights watching a movie on TV, or just sitting on opposite ends of the couch reading.

 

Steve seemed to be happy. He had set up shop at the kitchen table, which had become their base of operations, pouring over catalogues and paint swatches, happily murmuring over the selections available to him while Bucky, who had started experimenting with cooking on his own, mostly pasta dishes so far, fixed them lunch. And Bucky was content. Surprisingly so. He would slide a plate of food in front of Steve, and go over the ideas for the house that Steve had come up with. Steve always respected Bucky’s opinion; if Bucky expressed even the slightest hint of hesitation or dislike, Steve immediately backed off and returned to flipping through the pages of whatever catalogue he was looking through, searching for different ideas. Or sometimes he stopped what he was doing, put the books aside, and watched Bucky cook instead.

 

He was always watching Bucky. He was careful about it and tried very hard not to be obvious. But Bucky could always tell when Steve’s eyes were on him. It wasn’t invasive or judgmental. Curious most times, watchful Bucky knew, when Steve wanted to be sure of his mood or mental state. But never heavy or intrusive. It was his artistic eye, that studied but accepted, committing even the smallest of details to memory, comparing and contrasting, but always able to see the truth within.

 

Bucky wondered what Steve saw when he looked at him. Was he comparing him to the Bucky of his childhood, the soldier who had fought against him on the helicarrier, or something else? When they were younger, Steve had always looked at Bucky as if he were the center of his world. But Steve’s world was a lot bigger now and Bucky would never be that cocksure young fool again, who had loved Stevie with all his heart, but had ended up being turned into something that was the antithesis of everything Steve stood for. Steve never said, and Bucky never asked, but he could still feel the weight of Steve’s eyes on him as they worked on building this weird life of theirs together.

 

Sometimes when it got to be too much, Bucky would deliberately do something to distract Steve. Like the day Bucky had decided to try making a stir fry for lunch, and Steve had just sat at their kitchen table, his chin in his palm, watching. Bucky sliced through the vegetables he had been planning to use with his left hand, two pounds of them in less than a minute, and then flipped the knife around his fingers before scooping up all of the perfectly sliced and diced tomatoes, mushrooms, carrots, onions and celery into the bowl he had set out for just that purpose. Behind him, Steve snorted.

 

“Show off,” he muttered.

 

“I got mad skills, Stevie.” Bucky went to the refrigerator and pulled out the chicken he was planning to add to their meal.

 

“What you got is a metal hand.” And that was interesting. It was the first time Steve had dared to joke about his arm.

 

“You think I can only do that with my left?” Bucky tossed the knife in the air with his left hand, caught it in his right, rolled it over his fingers and began to slice the chicken into thin, perfectly even strips. All in less than 30 seconds.

 

“All right, all right,” Steve huffed, but there was a laugh in it. “You know what? I’m just gonna sit here, shut up, and wait for my lunch.”

 

“Can we make that a rule? Because seriously, ‘Stevie sits there and shuts up whenever Bucky is making lunch’ should definitely be a rule.”

 

“Yeah sure Buck, I’ll add it to the list. Right after ‘Bucky will finally let somebody else sit in the damned Lay-Z-Boy when we’re watching TV.’”

 

“That’s a stupid rule Stevie, and I hate to tell you this but it is in direct contrast to the household accords.”

 

“What household accords?”

 

“The ones we both signed when you agreed to move in.”

 

“I didn’t sign any damned accords, Bucky.”

 

“Are you sure about that Stevie? Because I have a signed, notarized copy of them up in my room.”

 

“Notarized by who?”

 

“Senora Lopez.”

 

“Jerk.” But Steve was snorting as he said it.

 

“Punk.”

 

They did have rules though. That was one of the first things that Bucky had insisted on when Steve moved in.

 

The first and definitely most important, to Bucky at least, was that Steve was to never come into his room, and especially on the nights when Bucky was having a nightmare, no matter what Steve may have heard. That one was a tough one for Steve to accept.

 

“So if you’re having a nightmare, I’m just supposed to leave you in there?” he argued.

 

“Yes, you are.” Bucky refused, absolutely refused to accept anything less than this. “I got guns in my room Stevie, and if I’m in the middle of a fit and you come in there, I don’t know what I’ll do. You can’t take that risk Steve, _you can’t._ ”

 

“Bucky, I can -“

 

“No Steve, this is non-negotiable. And if you can’t promise me this, then we are going to move all of your stuff back to your apartment right now. Because I’m telling you, if I end up shooting you because I’m having a nightmare, the next bullet I shoot will be to my own brain.” Steve stepped back at that as if Bucky had slapped him. “So promise me Steve, absolutely swear to me that you won’t come into my room at night, or we’re calling this whole thing off.”

 

“All right Bucky.” Steve ran a defeated hand through his hair. “I promise you, no matter what, I won’t come into your room at night.”

 

“Thank you,” Bucky sighed. “That’s all I ask.”

 

“Bullshit. You ask for a hell of a lot all of the time Buck.” Steve rolled his eyes at him, but when he met Bucky’s gaze, his expression was serious. “But I swear to you I won’t come into your room.” Bucky nodded at him, slapped his shoulder in thanks, and then went to make his way downstairs to collect the last of Steve’s boxes.

 

“By the way, how many guns do you have in the house?” He heard Steve call from the top of the stairs. Bucky just snorted at him. “Bucky!”

 

It was a compromise between them. One of many, and probably the hardest for Steve to accept. Especially five nights after Steve had finally moved in and Bucky had his first nightmare with Steve in the house.

 

He had come to, covered in sweat and tears, crouched on the floor by his bed, his throat sore from what he knew were his own screams, to a pounding on the door and Steve calling his name. He couldn’t focus just yet, his entire body was shaking too much for him to even move, and Steve’s own shouts were making it worse.

 

“I’m-I’m o-okay. G-g-go back to b-bed Steve,” he eventually managed to answer. The pounding finally, finally stopped as Steve’s voice fell quiet.

 

“Can I come in Buck? Just to make sure you’re all right? Please Bucky?” Steve begged. Bucky looked down at his left hand, noticing for the first time the Glock grasped in his fingers and was so damned glad Steve had kept his word and not come in.

 

“G-go to bed Steve,” was all Bucky could get out before he curled around himself and just let himself shatter into a million tiny pieces.

 

The next morning, after he had finally been able to pull himself back together ( _barely, barely, barely, the threads were so thin_ ) and stumbled into the kitchen, Steve was waiting for him, looking about as bad as Bucky felt.

 

“You look like shit.” His throat still hurt and his voice was even raspier than usual.

 

“Yeah well, it was a rough night,” Steve replied, running his eyes over Bucky, checking him over as he always did, wanting to make sure he was okay. Most of the time, Bucky found comfort in Steve’s concern, but every bit of him, from his skin to his hair, felt raw, open and bleeding, and somehow even Steve’s kind gaze hurt.

 

“Sorry ‘bout that. I should have warned you better. I’d understand if –“

 

“Don’t even go there, Buck,” Steve growled with a shake of his head. But it was a gentle warning, and soft. “Now sit down, and let me get you something to eat. And then you can go curl up in your chair and do whatever you need to do that helps.” Steve then proceeded to do exactly that. He made Bucky an omelet filled with cheese, turkey and ham, a huge side of bacon, and some hash browns, before he shepherded Bucky to his favorite chair, covering him with a light sheet. He spent the rest of the afternoon sitting on the couch, quietly reading, not speaking, just there, while Bucky slowly pulled himself back together.

 

It took all day.

 

Once Bucky was finally able to uncurl himself from the chair, and after he had climbed upstairs to take a long, scalding shower, he came back down to find Steve once again waiting for him, this time with a huge serving of steaming lasagna from their weekly food delivery sitting on the table. Bucky nodded his thanks, sat down and began to eat, ravenous as he shoveled forkful after forkful of the pasta into his mouth.

 

“Sorry about last night,” he said as he began to make his way through a second serving of lasagna.

 

“It’s okay Buck.” Steve’s voice was low, serious in the quiet of their kitchen. “Although I gotta say, that was pretty bad.”

 

“If you want to –“

 

“ _Don’t_ Buck. Just don’t even go there.” Steve cut him off before he could say anything else. “The only thing I want to hear from you is what I can do to help you the next time this happens.”

 

“I don’t think there’s anything anyone can do. They’re nightmares. I can’t stop ‘em and neither can you.”

 

“That wasn’t a nightmare Bucky. That was a fucking night terror. You screamed for hours, begging them to stop hurting you.” Bucky shivered and dropped his fork to the floor. Steve bent over, picked it up, then tossed it in the sink before getting Bucky a clean one. “Keep eating. Are they always that bad?”

 

“They used to be worse.” At Steve’s disbelieving glare, Bucky shrugged. “I don’t have them every night anymore at least.”

 

“How often do you have them?”

 

“Once a week maybe. More if I’ve had a bad flashback.”

 

“Jesus.”

 

“Sorry.” And he was. He was so, so sorry for making Steve a part of this, when he deserved so much better.

 

“Don’t apologize Buck. I’m just sorry you have to go through this.” Steve reached out, and gently clasped Bucky’s wrist. “But you’re not alone anymore, remember that. And we’ll figure this out, okay?” All Bucky could do was nod, and go back to eating his food.

 

The second time it happened a week later, when Bucky was finally able to stumble out of his room, he found Steve curled up against the wall across from his door, shaking as badly as he was, his skin pale, and his eyes wide and wet.

 

“ _Bucky,_ ” he whispered. And oh, that voice. Filled with heartbreak and sadness and goddamned empathy. Bucky would have done anything in his power to never hear that sound in Steve’s voice again.

 

They came to another compromise after that. Steve would never come into his room during one of Bucky’s nightmares. But once the nightmare was over, as soon as Bucky had come back to himself, he would leave the room as soon as he was able, one time almost crawling out of it, so that Steve could lay eyes on him, take care of him and help him through the aftermath.

 

It helped both of them. For Bucky to have somebody there to pick up the pieces, in hands that were gentle and steady, and for Steve to be able to care and help hold those pieces until Bucky didn’t need them to be held anymore.

 

“Aren’t you getting tired of this yet Stevie?” Bucky asked the fourth time it had happened, sitting at the kitchen table, a warm mug of hot chocolate in his still shaking hands. “It’s gotta be a pain in the ass to keep having to take care of me like this.”

 

“Uh-huh.” Steve didn’t even bother looking up from the pot of chicken soup he was heating on the stove. “And what was it you used to say to me when I asked you the same thing after I had an asthma attack back when we were kids?”

 

“That was different! It wasn’t your fault you were sick all the time and needed my help! It never bothered me taking care of you when you were like that. I was happy to do it,” Bucky argued.

 

“Uh-huh,” Steve repeated, reaching for a bowl from the cabinet. “And there’s your answer.”

 

“It’s not the same.”

 

“Yeah Bucky, it is,” Steve said, as he placed the bowl of steaming soup in front of Bucky. “You get sick sometimes Buck, but it isn’t your fault. And it’s my turn to take care of you. My shoulders are plenty strong enough now, I can carry the both of us for a bit when you need it.” Steve handed him a spoon. “And unlike me Buck, you don’t need any super serum to get better. You’re doing that mostly on your own. And it won’t be like this forever. Let me help when you need it.”

 

And oh, he was still a manipulative son of a bitch. But a manipulative son of a bitch with the biggest heart in the world.

 

“Not mostly on my own,” Bucky murmured after a few spoonfuls of soup. He kicked Steve’s foot lightly under the table, to make sure Steve understood exactly what he meant. “Just so you know.”

 

“Thanks Buck.” Steve smiled at him.

 

“Yeah, you too.”

 

***

 

Of course, just because Steve had the hugest heart in the world didn’t mean that Bucky was going to stop giving him shit. His head was already big enough as it was, and it didn’t need to get any bigger just because _sometimes_ Steve knew what he was talking about. It had always been Bucky’s job to keep Steve in line and on his toes, and he had no intentions of stopping now. It was his goddamned right after all, and a hell of a lot of fun too. Over seventy years later, and Steve was just as easy to fluster as he’d ever been.

 

For example, Bucky’s guns.

 

“Seriously Bucky, how many guns do you have in the house?” Steve asked one day after he had come home from doing whatever it was he did with the Avengers to find Bucky sitting at the kitchen table, carefully going over the dissembled pieces of two of his pistols.

 

“Hand guns, rifles or automatics?”

 

“What?”

 

“It was a simple question Stevie.”

 

“How many guns are in the house?”

 

“Enough.” _Maybe._

 

“At least tell me they’re all in your room.”

 

“Heh.” Bucky didn’t even bother to look up from where he was running his bore brush through the barrel of his Glock.

 

“Are you fucking kidding me? How many guns do you even need? Seriously Buck, do you know how many I have?”

 

“Two.”

 

“Exactly, I have two – wait, how do you even know that?” And there was his old friend, the bulging vein on Steve’s forehead.

 

“I cleaned them for you.” Bucky added a bit of gun oil to the patch on his bore.

 

“You…cleaned…them…for…me?”

 

“You really need to take better care of your weapons Steve. I mean, the shield is great and all, but still. They were filthy when I took them apart to get a good look at them.”

 

“ _You went into my room?_ ” And oh look, the bulging vein had a new friend, the twitching eyebrow.

 

“Of course I did. I had to, to get your guns so I could clean them.”

 

“Wait a minute. I can’t go into your room but you have no problem just waltzing into mine, when I’m not even here? Did you ever hear of respecting someone’s privacy, Bucky?”

 

“That wasn’t part of the household accords Stevie.”

 

“There are no household accords Bucky.”

 

“’Course there are. You signed them and everything.”

 

“I’d like to see a copy of these so-called accords.”

 

“Go ask Senora Lopez. She should have an extra copy lying around somewhere.”

 

“How many guns Bucky?”

 

“Heh.”

 

“Argh!”

 

So fucking easy.

 

***

 

It was a learning curve but somehow, they managed. And it was probably a very good thing that Steve still left almost every day to spend a few hours with his teammates. It gave them space away from each other, and Bucky could use that time to take care of things he wasn’t comfortable enough yet to do around Steve. Sometimes it was fun things, simple things, like going out on his own to find a new place to eat, or stop at a favorite restaurant that he hadn’t brought Steve to yet, just to check in on what was happening in the neighborhood, or have a favorite meal.

 

Other times, it was to take care of things he didn’t think he was ever going to have Steve witness, like the maintenance on his arm.

 

He took even better care of his arm than he did his guns. Every two weeks, like clockwork, once Steve had left for the day, Bucky would sit in the kitchen, with one of the specially designed tool sets he had stolen from HYDRA. He had four of them, two from the cell where they had been keeping him, and two from the safe house he had raided. He kept one set in his room, two in other hidey holes in the house, and one in his go bag. Carefully positioning a shaving mirror on the table, he would open the shielding plates and then carefully unlock the access panels beneath. There were three; one on his forearm, one just below his bicep, and one on the back of his shoulder, which was the most difficult to work on and why he required the shaving mirror. When the shielding plates were sealed, they were practically invisible to the eye. Once opened, the interior panels needed a special code before they could be accessed, codes implanted in Bucky’s brain, which could only be implemented by him, or by someone who had the right command words to make him release them.

 

So yeah, he was a bit paranoid about letting anybody watch him as he worked on his arm. While he was sure that he could trust Steve with this part of the process, he was not sure how well Steve would be able to handle it. He still hadn’t asked any questions about the arm, although Bucky knew they were getting close, and so far he’d been able to handle all of the other shit that came with living with Bucky. But the arm might prove to be too much, even for Steve. He didn’t think Steve would be able to sit there and watch as Bucky adjusted gears and made what small changes he could to the neural interfaces that kept the arm in synch with both his body and mind.

 

It was an amazing piece of technology, even Bucky could admit to that, that required minimal maintenance and even fewer upgrades. But he wanted to make sure that it remained that way. He also discovered that he needed to make more adjustments to it than he’d ever had to previously. His musculature was different than it had been while he had been HYDRA’s slave; he was stronger, bigger and healthier than ever before. But his muscles were looser too, not as tightly held as they had been previously, and Bucky found that he needed to make small, micro-adjustments to the interior gears so that the arm maintained its peak synchronization. It was a lot of tweaking and careful experimentation, and he was glad for the privacy as he explored what worked and what didn’t. He would never fully understand the design specifications of the arm, and he doubted anyone else would be able to recreate it. Whoever had built the arm had been a genius, and he doubted even Steve’s friend Tony Stark could have replicated it exactly. But it was his and as a result he was responsible for making sure it was as well maintained as possible.

 

He also continued to train. He ran with Steve daily, and the work on the house would have been a good enough workout for almost anyone. But he still had his other skills and he didn’t want to risk those getting rusty or his reaction times slowing. Again, he would wait for Steve to leave for the day, and then he would spend at least two hours, sometimes more, going through the special forms and combat training HYDRA had pounded, sometimes beaten, into his flesh.

 

He enjoyed the workout, even if he loathed the source, and could spend hours down in the basement, which was hidden from view and had plenty of space for a man of even his size to work, running through the movements and trying to find the new limits of his body. It was brutal, strenuous and challenging. Yet he loved it, easily losing himself in the rush of blood and pounding of his own heart. Until hours later, when even he’d had enough, and he’d stop, his hands on his hips while he gasped for breath and worked on slowing his heartrate (which happened sooner now than it ever had when he had been with HYDRA) and tried to decide what he wanted for lunch. He had earned it after all.

 

Steve did eventually catch him at it. Bucky knew it was bound to happen sooner or later. And he had been aware of Steve’s presence as soon as he’d come into the house, the way he was aware of Steve, had always been aware, whenever he was anywhere near. So, he didn’t jerk or startle when he finished moving through his stances and forms, looked up and saw Steve sitting at the top of the basement stairs, watching him, his eyes narrowed and his gaze sharp. Bucky just nodded at him once, and then bent over for his towel and the bottle of water he had brought with him.

 

“Jesus Christ, Bucky, that was fucking insane,” he finally said as Bucky took a greedy gulp of water. Bucky just shrugged. “Do you come down here and do that every day?” And oh no, Bucky could hear in his voice where this was heading. He needed to put a stop to it before the dumbass got any _Ideas_ , with a capital _I_. Steve was stronger than him and definitely the better fighter out of the two of them, but Bucky didn’t want to risk getting so lost in the fight that the Asset took control. That part of him, practically indistinguishable from the rest of him now, did not care about fair play or sportsmanship. It only fought to win, and winning had always meant killing its opponent. That was fine for the rest of the world, but he was never going to take that chance with Stevie.

 

“Don’t even think it pal,” he said as he wiped down his face and neck.

 

“What?” Steve was trying to play it innocent, as if Bucky hadn’t known him their entire lives, and knew what a stinking little liar he could be when he wanted something.

 

“No.”

 

“Aw, come on Bucky.” Next was wheedling, as if he hadn’t gotten Bucky in enough trouble during their lives trying to convince him to follow whatever harebrained scheme he had come up with. ( _Aw, come on Bucky, Mr. Piedmont will never find out we’re the ones who put dog shit in his shoes_. (Wrong.) And _aw come on Buck, Miss Pattie will never know we stole her underwear from the clothesline._ (Very wrong.) And _Come on Sarge, so what if we only have two rounds of ammo left. The Nazis are right there. I’ve got my shield and we’re the best goddamned team out there. We can’t let this opportunity pass. They won’t know what hit ‘em._ (Oh so very very very wrong, as the scar still remaining on Bucky’s left ass check would forever testify to. And hey, new memory where he was pissed off at Steve. _Thanks a lot Stevie_.) )“It would be so much fun.”

 

“No.” Bucky finished wiping down his face and headed toward the stairs.

 

“Seriously Buck? Are you telling me you don’t think you could handle me?” And now Steve was going to try to play on his ego, which had always worked in the past, that was true. But Bucky had come this far, and he was not going to make the same mistakes, no matter how much Captain Stupid, More Stupid and Most Stupidest of All tried to goad him.

 

“No Steve, _I_ don’t,” he said as he climbed the stairs. “But the Asset,” and here Bucky tapped his forehead, “he would love to give it a try. And he doesn’t play fair, and he doesn’t follow rules. He fights to kill. You would end up having to put me down, and I don’t think _you_ could handle that.” As Bucky moved past Steve, who had risen from his seat and was staring at him, he tossed his sweaty towel in Steve’s face.

 

“Bleurgh!” Steve looked indignant as he pulled the towel away and glared at him.

 

“No, Steve.”

 

“Bucky, I –“ Steve wasn’t going to let this go, Bucky could tell. He would back off for a bit, but Bucky knew he was just going to try coming at it from a different direction.

 

“I’m going to grab a couple of calzones for lunch. You want one?”

 

“Yeah, okay.” And now it was petulant’s turn. “But I really think –“

 

“You thinking is prohibited by the household accords.”

 

“There are no goddamned household accords!” Steve shouted from the stairs.

 

“Ha! Shows what you know.” And just because he could, and because he was still mad about the scar on his butt cheek, he flicked the switch and turned off the lights in the basement, leaving Steve cursing at him in the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I wanted to thank everyone who has taken the time to leave a comment. Bucky would have thanked you himself, but he said that Steve's being a Bossy McBossyPants and telling him he can't thank anyone until Bucky lets him know where he's hidden all of his guns. Bucky says that's against the household accords, and it's never polite to be rude, but Steve's eyebrow is starting to twitch, so he's just going to leave it for now. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also, I wanted to once more give a shout out to my beta - Merry_rf. A few weeks ago she finally got to me all of her suggestions and corrections on The Taming, and guys, she did a FANTASTIC job. She's also a great writer herself, so maybe go check out her stories and give her a little bit of love? **points to link below**
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/users/Merry_rf/pseuds/Merry_rf/works


	14. Chapter 14

Bucky was such a pain in the ass. And living with him, living with him was difficult and challenging. Steve lost count of the missteps and landmines that he uncovered in the first month. Steve had learned very quickly when and where to tread carefully.

 

He was twitchy and paranoid, and could spook at the drop of a hat, like the day they had been unpacking groceries in the kitchen, when a car had backfired out in the street and Steve had turned to see Bucky crouching down on a floor, a gun in one hand and a knife in the other. Whenever they returned home from being outside, he went through every room on every floor, making sure with his highly developed senses that nothing had been disturbed and no one had been in the house. Once a day, he would go through the house again, this time with a small scanner, searching for bugs, and confirming that all the windows were locked. He couldn’t sleep if he didn’t follow his nightly protocols, so Steve said nothing and left him to it. And Steve still had no idea how many guns were in the house, wherever Bucky was stashing them.

 

But nothing was worse than the night terrors. The goddamned motherfucking night terrors that happened at least once a week, and left Steve feeling weaker, more helpless, and as if having every single bone in his body broken over and over again would be less painful.

 

Because Bucky screamed. He screamed, and screamed, and screamed, and screamed. And then he begged. He begged, and begged, and begged, and begged. To _please stop, please, please, please just stop_. And _no more no more no more_. And then _what did you do, take it off, cut it off me, I don’t want it, cut it off._ And _it hurts, it hurts, oh god, it hurts, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop_. And worst of all, _kill me, just kill me, please, just kill me_. Over and over and over again. First in English, then in Russian, he begged and pleaded with his captors, his torturers who had treated him worse than an animal. And they never yielded to his pleas for mercy, had never once, no matter how hard Bucky had screamed, stopped. Bucky had lived through over seventy years of brutal, agonizing torture and not once had any of his captors paused to think about the man they were doing this to.

 

Steve had no idea how Bucky had survived it, how anyone could. He knew he wouldn’t have. And yet, here Bucky was, putting himself back together, with gossamer threads sometimes, it was true, but managing to do it with the force of his will alone.

 

It reminded him of what Dr. Erskine had told him, the night before he had been injected with the serum. _Good becomes great, bad becomes worse._ The latter had certainly been true with Schmidt, who had turned into a megalomaniac with not a care for any of the humans living in the world. With Bucky, it didn’t make sense. Because Bucky had always been smart and cunning, and a relentless soldier. But he had a heart unlike any other Steve had ever known, before the war and since escaping from HYDRA. Kind and generous, never deceived or put off by outward appearances, but always seeing the truth within. He had a theory that it was the reason why HYDRA kept wiping his mind, eradicating his personality. They had wanted his skills, already exceeding anyone’s expectations, under their control. But in order to gain that control, they’d had to remove the one roadblock in their way – Bucky himself. So they wiped him, again and again, and again, until they had been convinced that there was nothing left, and sent him out into the world as their ultimate weapon.

 

Except somewhere deep inside, where no one could see and no one could find him, Bucky, the essence of him, had managed to survive. Hidden, weak and fractured, no doubt, but still there, waiting for just one chance, the right moment to claw himself free.

 

He was still fighting for that freedom, still working on making himself whole. But he was doing it. Because even when prowling the house at night, he would turn and look at Steve and say “Gotta make sure you’re safe here Stevie,” and mean it. When the car had backfired, yes Bucky had crouched. But he had crouched in front of Steve, putting Steve at his back and using his body to shield Steve from any possible incoming danger. Bucky looking out for Steve and wanting to protect him, just like he had since they were six and seven years old, and for some reason Bucky had decided to pick Steve to be his best friend. Still, after all this time, when Steve had been the one to fail Bucky when he had let him fall from that train.

 

So Bucky could go fuck himself with all of his; _‘I’m sorry you have to deal with all of my shit,’_ and _‘I never should have asked,’_ and _‘You deserve so much better than this, Stevie.’_ Bucky was never going to get rid of Steve, no matter what he did or said.

 

So yeah, Bucky was a pain in the ass, and living with him was difficult and challenging and full of so many landmines that Steve had lost count. And Steve fucking loved it.

 

Because Bucky was funny, and loved to give Steve shit whenever he could, and shared all the best parts of himself with Steve, as if that was something Steve was entitled to. He smiled at Steve when he got excited about paint combinations, colored tile and wall paper. When Steve was having a bad day, he looked after him and made sure to let Steve know that he wasn’t alone, that his company was appreciated and cared for, and never asked for anything in return. He would happily sit, quietly reading in the same room as Steve, when he was inspired and just wanted to pull his sketchbook out to draw. And he still, still, made sure that Steve always got most of the food, even when they both knew that Bucky would probably always need it more.

 

He was growing and he was changing, little by little and day by day. There really weren’t two aspects to him anymore, just the one who was trying to figure out who he was and how he fit in his new world. There were still the shitty nights, and the days when Bucky needed to run. But he always kept his promise and texted Steve, and was never gone for more than three days. He let Steve worry and fuss, and didn’t complain too much as Steve tried different things to help Bucky recover from one of his night terrors sooner. Surprisingly, watching something mindless on the TV worked. Steve would bundle him up in a blanket, settle him in the Lay-Z-Boy chair and find something on the television for him to stare at. The Muppets were proving to be a particular favorite. Forty minutes after he had first put them on, when Steve had gone back into the kitchen to grab some brownies, Bucky had called out “The fuck am I watching Steve?” And then, thirty minutes after that, when Steve had gone to get them more hot chocolate; “Wait a minute. Are you telling that the pig who does karate is sleeping with the frog with the skinny legs? Hah. Sounds just like you and Peggy.”

 

There were the good days too. Days when Steve came home from the city, to find Bucky waiting for him as soon as he walked through the door, practically bouncing on his feet.

 

“Have you had lunch yet Stevie?”

 

“No, not yet Buck. I was waiting to get home.”

 

“Come on then. I found this new Mongolian Grill place, and the food is amazing. Turn your ass around right now or I’m leaving without you.” Steve would laugh, but he would follow. Bucky had never steered him wrong; wherever they ended up eating, the food was always amazing. Bucky was always so happy to share his latest treasures with Steve.

 

Or the day when Steve had been sitting at their kitchen table, flipping through his catalogues and he thought he’d found the tiling that would finally work for their upstairs bathroom, soft blue with black trim that would go well with the antique fixtures and claw footed bathtub Bucky had found online the previous week.

 

“Hey Buck, come over here, and take a look at this. Tell me what you think.” Bucky had been in the kitchen with him, making them both some lunch, when he turned around and leaned over Steve’s shoulder, so close that Steve could feel his hair against his cheek. Touching was still something that Bucky rarely did, but he had started moving closer to Steve. He was less hesitant to lay a hand on Steve’s shoulder, or lean close enough that Steve could smell his shampoo.

 

“I like it.” From the corner of his eye, Steve could see Bucky’s little half smile, that always meant he was pleased. “That’s gonna look great in the upstairs bathroom. I meant it when I said it, you always did have a really great eye for color Stevie.” With that, Bucky slapped his shoulder and stepped away, taking with him the scents of cinnamon and clove and the kiss of hair against his cheek, as well as all of Steve’s attention.

 

Then there was the night it was Steve’s turn to have a nightmare. He had come home late that evening from a mission with his teammates, to find Bucky once again waiting with food, medical attention and care. It hadn’t been bad, but a child had been killed long before they had even received a request for assistance. But to Steve it still felt like a failure as he had watched the boy’s mother wailing over his little body.

 

That sense of failure had followed him into his dreams that night, as his mind replayed not only images of the mother’s crying, but every other mission he’d been on where there had been a loss, and then of Bucky falling from the train over and over, and over again.

 

He came awake to Bucky’s hand on his shoulder, gently shaking him, and the words “It’s okay Stevie, I’m here. You found me this time, and you brought me back, and I’m here now. I’m here.”

 

“B-buck?” Steve’s voice sounded rough to his own ears, and he realized that he was the one who must have been shouting into the dark that night.

 

“Yeah Stevie, it’s me. You back with me now?” He was sitting on the side of Steve’s bed, looking down at Steve with an expression that was both sad, and impossibly fond at the same time.

 

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you, bad dream.”

 

“Pfft. Like those never happen in this house.” And leave it to Bucky to give him shit in the middle of the night. But it did make Steve start to feel a little better.

 

“Jerk,” he muttered.

 

“Yeah, but I’m the only jerk you got. Now move over and lie on your side. I remember how to handle this.” Bucky pushed at him until Steve did as he asked, moving over and rolling onto his side. Bucky laid down on the bed next to Steve, and then placed his right hand, warm and steady, in between Steve’s shoulder blades, where he rubbed Steve’s back in slow and even circles, just like he used to when they were kids, and Steve hadn’t been able to sleep due to his asthma.

 

“Thank you,” Steve whispered into the dark.

 

“You’re welcome,” Bucky whispered back. “I’m here and I’ve got you. You’re safe. Go back to sleep.” Bucky kept rubbing his back, and in less than a minute Steve was able to close his eyes and fall back asleep.

 

When he woke up the next morning, Bucky was gone. But the side of the bed where he had been laying was still warm, and Steve could smell the scents of coffee, eggs and bacon in the cool, morning air.

 

They never spoke of it again, but they didn’t have to. Some things would always be the same between them, no matter how much time had passed.

 

***

 

And then there was Bucky’s training. It had caught Steve by surprise, because they had been living in the same house for over a month, and they spent so much of their time together. Bucky had never mentioned it or gave any indication he kept up his regimen. But of course, he was still a sneaky bastard and was going to do whatever the hell he pleased, whether Steve approved of it or not.

 

It wasn’t as if Steve would have disapproved or argued against it. It was just that he would have liked to have been kept in the loop.

 

He had come home from the Tower two hours earlier than he usually did. Sam was back in DC, both Natasha and Clint were away on assignment, Maria was busy doing whatever the hell she did when she wasn’t coordinating missions for them, and both Bruce and Tony were caught up with some new project in their labs. There had been nothing for him to do, and no leads he needed to follow up on, so after a quick cup of coffee with Pepper, he had decided to head back home.

 

Bucky didn’t greet him at the door like he usually did, and the house was quiet and still. But Steve must have developed some of his own ability to sense when the house was empty, because he knew Bucky was home, he just didn’t know where.

 

On a whim, he decided to head down to the basement to gather his load of laundry from the dryer and that’s when he noticed that the lights were on. He stepped lightly on the stairs, not wanting to disturb Bucky if he was downstairs washing his underwear, because seriously, there were just some things he did not need to know, and that’s when he saw him.

 

Bucky was down in the basement, and he was wearing a tight-fitting t-shirt and a pair of track pants. He had pulled his hair back into a bun on the top of his head to keep it from his face, but a few strands had escaped and were sticking to the back of his neck.

 

And he was moving.

 

It was unlike anything Steve had ever seen. He was twisting and turning, fluid as water, fast as a lightning strike, more powerful than an avalanche, but controlled and precise. Not a breath, or twitch or flick of his wrist was wasted. Everything perfectly timed, but smooth, even, bending like grass in the wind, as ungraspable as smoke. Flexible and sharp, always moving, changing directions, changing angles, but something within him, that deadly, deadly core, perfectly balanced and still, the eye of the hurricane, the dark side of the moon.

 

Steve was speechless. But he wanted, oh how he wanted. To dance like that with Bucky, to meet that strength and power with his own and see if their steps would, could mesh together and find a synchronicity of bodies, flesh and sweat. To challenge and be challenged by this man, who had always been able to hold his own, and see what they could do when they combined their strengths and talents. Oh, what he wouldn’t give for that.

 

When Steve had first been given the serum, he hadn’t been given any training. He could absorb and adapt at a remarkable rate, but initially his skills had been learned on the battlefield. He hadn’t really trained until he had been pulled from the ice and started working with the Avengers. Both Sam and Clint were excellent sparring partners, giving their all, and challenging Steve’s mind more than his body with their techniques. Thor fought more like he did, using power and determination to force his way through, and when they trained together it usually ended with both of them on the floor, laughing at each other. But as an Asgardian Prince, Thor had other responsibilities he had to tend to, and could not be there all the time. Steve always looked forward to his visits, but they weren’t predictable. Bruce’s Hulk was sheer power; there was no use in trying to train with him. Anything Steve could throw at him would have just been absorbed and thrown back harder. It was pure, unadulterated force, and simply unstoppable. Steve recognized and respected that, but you couldn’t train it or train with it. Tony had a brilliant mind, and could calculate possibilities and solutions faster than anyone Steve had ever met. But unless he was wearing his suit, he was far from the Avengers’ strongest fighter. Natasha was probably the most skilled out of all of them. She knew how to use her body to its maximum potential, combining cunning with leverage, and adapting someone else’s strengths and weaknesses to her advantage. But she was still human, without any enhanced strength or healing abilities. And if Steve ever really let go, he knew he could hurt her badly, out of sheer power alone. But her fighting style, more than anyone else’s, seemed to most closely match Bucky’s. They were clearly trained by some of the same people.

 

Bucky moved in a very similar manner to Natasha. In his movements, Steve could see how Bucky would be able to use his opponent’s momentum to his advantage, focus on the weak points and use those to bring someone down. Steve remembered fighting him on both the bridge and the helicarrier, and Bucky could take a hit, absorb its impact and turn it against you. He had merely rolled back to his feet every time Steve had flipped him, and come back with another move that struck at a joint or cut to a weak spot right between bones, never faltering and always coming back for more.

 

But Bucky also had power, from his arm and what the serum had done to his body. He could smash concrete like it was nothing, grab someone by the throat and throw them fifteen feet away as if they weighed less than a doll. He didn’t react to pain and he never seemed to tire, and he had those damned sharp senses that let him know someone was there, even if couldn’t see them. Steve knew he could learn a lot from sparring with Bucky, just as he knew he could probably teach Bucky just as much. And it would be fun, oh god, it would be so much fun to be able to go against a partner like that, and just let loose.

 

“Jesus Christ, Bucky, that was fucking insane,” he said when Bucky finally stopped. Bucky just looked at him, not surprised in the slightest that Steve was there. Of course he wasn’t. He knew this house and all its secrets like he knew his own bones. He had probably felt it when Steve had come in, and decided not to stop what he was doing until his practice was complete. “Do you come down here and do that every day?”

 

Bucky narrowed his eyes at him, before he bent down, picked up a towel he used to wipe his face, and then said, “Don’t even think it pal.”

 

Steve had tried to argue, cajole, even prick at Bucky’s pride, which had always worked in the past. But Bucky would not be swayed and he would not change his mind. He even brought up those damned ridiculous household accords with Steve, but no matter what Steve said or did, Bucky always refused. So, Steve tried a different strategy.  

 

Instead of heading for the Tower at his usual time, he started staying home during the day.

 

The first time he didn’t get changed to leave and just smiled at Bucky with a “So, what are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?” Bucky glared at him and then put him to work on removing the old tile from the upstairs bathroom. The second time he did it a few days later, Bucky looked at him and said “Well, if you’re staying home, we might as well go for a run.” Which they did, Bucky leading, taking them on an all-out sprint through Brooklyn. The third time, Bucky had him rearrange all the furniture in the living room for hours, until almost dinnertime, when he looked around the room and then back at Steve with a “You know what? I liked it better the way it was.”

 

“You’re an asshole James Buchanan Barnes!” Steve had shouted to his retreating form.

 

“The answer’s still no Stevie!” Buck had called back, completely unrepentant.

 

Steve decided to change tactics again. He started dressing as if he were leaving, but after an hour of walking around the neighborhood, he would head back to the house and go straight to the basement. Instead of interrupting or saying anything, he would just sit at the top of the stairs and observe. It was easy enough to do; watching Bucky train himself was like being an audience member at a brutal ballet. Strength and power, balance and grace, violence and control, all imbued in the mastery Bucky had over his own body. It was the most fascinating thing he had ever seen. Sometimes he worked just his body, sometimes he trained with his knives, and once he used a metal baton, that he flipped and tossed between his hands with what Steve could tell was a deadly accuracy. His concentration never wavered, even though he always knew when Steve was there. When he was done, he would look up and roll his eyes at Steve as he wiped himself down.

 

“Oh, don’t mind me,” Steve would say to him with a cheerful little wave. “Just enjoying the show.” Bucky’s responding huff always had a clear _dumbass_ in it.

 

Steve started bringing his sketchpad and pencils with him a few days later. He could see that bothered Bucky, but Bucky had been Steve’s first model ages ago, and Bucky would never do anything to discourage Steve’s pursuit of art. So he huffed again, spent a little extra time doing his warm up stretches and focused on his training.

 

Sometimes Steve would draw a part of Bucky’s body; the way the muscles in his arm contracted before a strike, the tendons in his wrist when they flexed to flip one of his knives. Sometimes he just tried to capture the essence of Bucky’s movement. Those sketches ended up being a series of lines, smooth and flowing in their mimicry of Bucky’s body. He filled half of his sketchpad with those types of images and they ended up being his favorite. When he flipped through them later he could recall perfectly the way Bucky’s spine had dipped, or the swoop of his leg through the air. The sketches flew from his fingers, one right after the other, until he needed to purchase a new sketchbook and more pencils.

 

He also began to learn the smaller intricacies of the way Bucky trained himself as he spent those hours watching him. If Bucky was unhappy with the way something went, he never just stopped. He finished his sequence, paused with his head tilted in a way that let Steve know he was rerunning it in his head, analyzing what he had done and picking at the flaws. Not that there were very many that Steve could see, if any really, but he could tell when Bucky had done something he was not happy with. He would return to his opening stance and run through the entire series again, one time repeating it seven times before he seemed satisfied with his performance. Steve had to train his eyes to be able to pick up the miniscule changes Bucky was making, before he actually started to comment on them.

 

“You turned your right foot out a fraction that last time. Why?” Steve was casual as he spoke, not even bothering to look up from his sketchpad. But from the corner of his eye he could see the way Bucky jerked just a bit at his question.

 

“Left arm’s heavier than the right. Have to compensate,” he responded after a minute.

 

“Huh. Okay, makes sense.” Steve went back to sketching and Bucky went back to his training, and neither of them said anything else about it for the rest of the afternoon.

 

“Why are you tilting your hip like that? You weren’t before,” was the next comment Steve made a few sessions later.

 

“Lost a few pounds. Center of gravity’s different. I’m adjusting the balance,” was Bucky’s response.

 

“Ah. Okay.” Steve nodded, smirking to himself at Bucky’s rolled eyes, but making a mental note to make sure that Bucky’s portions were bigger during their next few meals.

 

“Loosen your shoulders a bit. It will help with the follow through.” A week later.

 

“Left one’s a bit tight today. It’s bugging me. I’m trying to work it out.”

 

“Does it hurt?” Steve didn’t even consider telling Bucky to stop.  He knew it would piss him off, and Steve did not want to lose even the small ground he had gained.

 

“Nah, it’s not bad. I can push through it.” Bucky was rolling his left shoulder when Steve glanced at him, the upper plates whirring softly with the movement.

 

“They’ve got these adhesive heating pads now. Good steady heat for a few hours. Might help if you sleep with one on. We can pick some up if you like.” Steve tossed it out as a casual observation, no intent just some concern.

 

“Might be a good idea,” Bucky said after a moment. But he didn’t resume his movements. When Steve looked up, Bucky was staring at him with narrowed eyes. Steve didn’t say anything, just cocked an eyebrow in response. “Anything else Captain Know-It-All?”

 

_Gotcha._

 

Bucky still didn’t let Steve train with him, but he did let Steve watch, and after he finished each of his sequences he would look at Steve and wait for his feedback. Steve would point out things he had noticed, and Bucky would either nod in agreement or explain why he was making the choices he was. It didn’t happen very often, Bucky was just _that good,_ but he did acknowledge Steve’s observations and was willing to integrate his feedback into his skill set. Eventually it got to the point where Bucky would let Steve approach him after a sequence and put his hands on him, a palm to his lower back to indicate when he needed to stabilize himself a bit better, or a hand to his shoulder, guiding him to compensate for the weight of his left arm on the follow through when he punched with his right. Bucky would nod, and within two tries, usually only one, he would perfect the movement Steve had been critiquing.

 

A few weeks later, they switched roles, and Bucky watched while Steve trained. Bucky’s eyes were just as sharp and knowledgeable as Steve’s, and he was a tough instructor, but his feedback was by far the best Steve had ever received.

 

“You rely too much on your own power, Stevie, which yeah, you’ve got a lot of, and you use it well. But it can make you predictable. Let your opponent do more of the work, and use their own strength against them.”

 

“Like you do?”

 

“Works, doesn’t it?”

 

“It’s fucking terrifying, Buck,” Steve was honest in his reply.

 

Bucky acknowledged his comment by clicking his teeth and rising from where he had been crouched low, using his hands to shift Steve’s knees so his stance was more open. “Now come on, do it again, looser this time.”

 

Bucky even went so far as to start teaching Steve knife work. Steve could use knives pretty well, but it had never been his strong point. Bucky was a master at it. His knives never slipped from his grip and he never missed a target when he threw. But he was a thorough and patient teacher. He taught Steve how to hold and balance a knife, showing him how to slice, jab and use the blade in his hand with a perfect and deadly precision. His fingers were actually longer than Steve’s, and after he noticed this, the next time it was Steve’s turn to train, Bucky had a different set of knives for him, better suited for Steve’s grip.

 

They still never sparred against each other; Bucky absolutely refused to even consider the idea. “I wasn’t kidding when I said it could trigger something in here that could hurt you Stevie,” he had countered Steve’s request with a tap to his forehead. But they spent several afternoons a week watching each other, critiquing and helping each other improve. And Steve was confident that they had learned enough by doing just that, that if they ever were out on a mission together, they would be one hell of a force to be reckoned with.

 

It was going to happen. Not yet, and maybe not for a while. Bucky still didn’t think he was stable enough to go out in the field. But it was coming. Steve could see it in their future. Not today, but one day, it would be Captain America and his second-in-command Sergeant James Bucky Barnes, and any evil forces in the world would be left weeping on their knees.

 

***

 

It was their life now. The good, the bad and ugly of it. As the season rolled from spring into summer, they went on their runs, trained in the basement, and worked on the  house, always giving each other shit along the way. They had their bad days, with nightmares and flashbacks, and Bucky needing to flee in the night. But he always came back, and he always let Steve help him put his pieces back together, accepting Steve’s need to help and be there with a quiet and stunned grace, and so much gratefulness Steve’s heart ached. He needed Steve, and he trusted him to be the one who was there to help him.

 

But as the weeks passed and their lives continued to merge, Steve realized how he needed Bucky just as much, had probably needed him from the moment he had woken up in that fake hospital room in New York City, to this strange new world that he didn’t understand. Bucky had his moods and his fears and he could be withdrawn when something hit him wrong. But he was caustic and funny and he could read Steve better than anyone else. He always had. To Bucky, Steve wasn’t Captain America, or Steve Grant Rogers, a legend returned from the dead. To Bucky, he was just and always would be _Stevie._ Not an icon or a war hero, but the boy and then the man who had been his best friend in Brooklyn, with all of his own fears and insecurities that he tried so hard to hide from the world. Bucky didn’t care if Steve could spend hours in an art store looking over all the different types of colored pencils, couldn’t stand apple pie, or had nightmares of his own that had him crying out in the night. Bucky would just be there, with a fond smile or a roll of his eyes, ready to give Steve shit if he felt he deserved it, or a warm hand in between his shoulders in the middle of the night. He just was, and who he was had always cared for and loved Stevie, for who he was, without any expectations or ulterior motives.

 

Steve had to respect his boundaries, and keep his promise to Bucky that he was safe now, that the row house was his home where he could find shelter from the storms both within and without. As long as he did, and let him know that he would always be there at Bucky’s side, both during the storms and to help him through the aftermath, then for Bucky that seemed to be enough. Bucky trusted Steve, believing that whenever he shattered, Steve’s hands would be simultaneously gentle and strong enough to shelter Bucky while Steve gathered those pieces in his palms and kept them safe, until Bucky was able to pull himself back together.

 

Bucky needed that safety. He needed his checks of the house, and his runs patrolling the neighborhood at night, and for Steve to sometimes shelter him from his own storms. Steve swore with everything in him that he would give Bucky that, that he would never allow for anyone or anything to take that from him.

 

Which was why it was so devastating when it was all destroyed, and by Steve’s own friends.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky wants you to know that no matter what Steve may have said, Bucky knew what he was doing the entire time he was sitting on those stairs. In fact, Steve would agree with him, but he's busy looking for his sketchbook and pencils that Bucky hid, since according to Bucky, drawing someone without their permission when they're all sweaty and gross is an absolute violation of the household accords. 
> 
> Anyway, as always, to everyone who had left a comment or a kudo, thank you so much. They are ALWAYS greatly appreciated and make my day. <3


	15. Chapter 15

Later, he would realize that he probably shouldn’t have been surprised. And later, much, much later, after the screaming and shouting and rage and desperation, he would be able to admit that his friends had probably only been trying to help. But they weren’t helpful in the way of a Salvadorian grandmother when she agreed to keep an eye on the row house. Or an old Chinese man, who would spend twenty minutes gossiping in his native tongue with his favorite customer before he stuffed two extra pork buns into a white paper bag before handing it over with a cackle and a squinty eye at Steve. They were the Avengers, and they had their own way of doing things, and for their own reasons.

 

The worst part of it all, Steve would later admit, was that things had been going so well. The weeks had rolled by and they were now in the sweltering, humid heat of June. They had picked up a few large, metal fans, and had taken to doing most of their work on the house during the early morning or evening hours to avoid as much of the heat as possible. They still ran and trained with each other a couple of times a week, but during the days they had decided to take it easy, and instead spent more of their time outside of the house, going for walks or visiting the various farmer’s markets throughout the city. Bucky had been doing well. He could still be a bit twitchy and mercurial in his moods, but he hadn’t had a nightmare or flashback in over two weeks, and seemed more settled in his own skin. He never left the house without something to hide his features, usually a baseball cap, but had started wearing thin linen shirts, and light cotton tunics, long sleeved so his arm was still covered, but which made it easier for him to deal with the heat.

 

It was a Saturday, and they had been out on an excursion to the Borough Hall Greenmarket. Steve had watched in quiet delight as Bucky searched, sampled and purchased his way through various honeys, yoghurts, breads, berries and fruit (they were planning to have a watermelon seed spitting contest later that night, where Steve was certain he would win, and Bucky was convinced that Steve was going to be the loser, with a capital L). When they returned to the row house, Steve was reaching into his pocket for his keys when he noticed Bucky had gone still beside him.

 

Very still and silent, except for the whir of the plates suddenly shifting in his left arm.

 

“Bucky?” Steve had just started to ask when Bucky dropped the bags he had been carrying, pushed Steve aside and used his left arm to rip the as-of-yet unlocked door open before stalking inside. “Bucky? What is it Bucky? What’s going on?”

 

Bucky stood  in the foyer, his head tilted to the side, his eyes narrowed to slits. He slowly scanned the room with that strange all-knowing perception of his.

 

“Bucky, what’s the matter?” Steve asked, and almost wished he hadn’t. Because when Bucky turned his gaze to meet Steve’s, in their blue Steve saw all the icy cold rage, power and fury that had been there the day Bucky had pinned him to the wall by his throat.

 

“Someone has been in the house.” His voice was the hiss of a snake, the whisper of a blade coming for your throat out of nowhere in the dark.

 

“What the hell are you talking about? No one’s been in the house Buck. The door was still locked -“

 

“ _Someone has been in the house, and the place is now crawling with bugs._ ” Steve followed as Bucky made his way into the kitchen and swiped his laptop from where he had left it on the table, and then turned, heading back to the foyer. And all the while, he muttered rapidly under his breath in a monotone voice, “ _Not safe. Base compromised. Attack imminent. Initiate evacuation procedures. Regroup and reassess. Mission priority, avoid recapture._ ”

 

“Bucky, what the hell are you talking about? Calm down and we’ll –“ Steve was saying. And then he made a mistake. The same mistake he made all those months ago when they first started working on the house together. He reached out and grabbed for Bucky’s arm.

 

With that speed, that deadly, deadly speed, which had only gotten better and even more focused since the two of them had started training together, Bucky reached out with his right arm, kicked the back of Steve’s knee and flipped him to his back on the floor. He did not go for Steve’s throat, instead holding him pinned to the ground by his sternum, his left arm raising, cocking back, the plates tightening in preparation for a strike. Steve thought Bucky was going to go for his face or his throat, and had a fleeting thought to wonder if he would survive a strike from that arm, when Bucky lunged forward, smashing through the wooden flooring just above Steve’s shoulder, pulling back half a second later with a backpack in his hand.

 

“Jesus Bucky, calm down! No one’s been in the house. Just calm down and you’ll see!” Steve told him as he rose to his feet.

 

“You said I would be safe here. That no one would come. You promised me Steve, you promised me!” His eyes were wide, panicked now as they scanned the room, flicking to every corner before coming back to rest on Steve. But only for a second, even less than that, before what had been Bucky’s fear was swallowed by the swirl of the Winter Soldier, ice and death and absolute undeniability. He looked at Steve in challenge, almost derision, before he said in a flat and empty voice, _“Tell the bitch I. Will. Not. Go. Back.”_

 

And then he turned around and ran through the door, pulling it shut behind him, before he sprinted down the street.

 

Steve followed him, of course he did. He raced after him to the street, needing to take half a second to open the door, and then another half to jump over the detritus of their shopping trip that Bucky had deliberately scattered over the stairs. By that time, Bucky had already made it to the corner. Steve put on a burst of speed, but when he reached the intersection, Bucky had already managed to make his way through eight lanes of incoming traffic. When Steve finally made it to the other side of Third Avenue less than thirty seconds later, Bucky was long gone.

 

Steve spent the next hour looking for Bucky, even though he knew it would be futile. Bucky had made it his priority to know this area as intimately as possible, and he still went out running on his own at times, when either Steve couldn’t be there or he just needed to move. Bucky knew its hidey holes and escape routes probably better than those who had lived there their entire lives. But Steve still searched, walking up and down the streets, trying to find any hint of where he may have gone, even looking up at the roofs to see if he could make out a silhouette, in case Bucky had decided to go up instead of out. But he knew it would be fruitless. Bucky was too good, and…and…

 

He had been terrified.

 

In that one glimpse, after he had tossed Steve to the floor and right before the Winter Soldier had risen as if summoned, in Bucky’s eyes Steve had seen pure unadulterated terror. His safe space, his shelter, had been violated and he was terrified that they were coming for him, that they were going to take him back. And how he had looked at Steve, how his voice had cracked, when he had uttered the words “You promised me Steve, you promised me.” Steve had only seen Bucky look like that once before, when he’d been eleven years old, and Steve had gone looking for him because Bucky hadn’t met him like he usually did after school, only to find him in the room he shared with his sisters, curled up in a ball under his bed because he had just learned that his father had died. That same fear and loss and heartbreak had all been in Bucky’s eyes in that fleeting second, something else he held precious and dear taken from him far too soon, before his survival instincts kicked in and Bucky fled.

 

But what the fuck had triggered Bucky like that? They had been having a good day, and Bucky seemed fine, as happy as he ever was these days, and then suddenly he had snapped, claiming someone had been in the house. As Steve made his way back to their home, glancing up at the stairs that were still covered with their groceries, he wondered what the hell had set Bucky off. The door had been locked when they returned, and none of the windows were open or appeared to have been broken as he studied the front of the brownstone. But Bucky had been absolutely positive that someone had been in the house.

 

Sighing, Steve reached for his Stark phone as he climbed the stairs and walked back into the foyer, looking down at the shattered wood paneling. Glancing at the screen, he was unsurprised to see that Bucky hadn’t answered any of the twelve texts Steve had sent him. He doubted he would, at least not yet. _Give him time_ , he told himself as he tried to sense what it was that had triggered Bucky’s flight instinct. _Just give him time, he always calms down and he always comes back._ On a lark, remembering Bucky’s words, Steve activated the interface on his phone to summon JARVIS.

 

_Greetings Captain Rogers. I hope all is well. How can I be of assistance?_ the AI inquired.

 

“JARVIS, can you do me a favor and scan the premises for tracking devices or bugs?” Steve asked.

 

_Certainly Captain_ , came the immediate response. _If you hold your phone upright and turn in a circle I will scan the room._

 

Steve was shaking his head as he did as JARVIS asked, thinking he was becoming just as paranoid as Bucky was, when less than fifteen seconds later, the screen on his phone lit up with the incoming message, _I am detecting six listening devices in the area. Two in your current location, one in the kitchen, one in the bathroom and two in the living room._

 

Steve was so shocked he almost dropped the phone. “Source?”

 

_All six of the devices are using the same frequency, which synchs directly to Agent Romanov’s phone._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **whispers** Sorry. 
> 
> (You can yell at me in the comments in you like.)


	16. Chapter 16

_“What the fuck Natasha?”_

 

Steve was beyond mad, beyond furious, and he was sure that his eyes were blazing with as much rage as Bucky’s had when he stormed into Natasha’s apartment in the Avengers Tower less than thirty minutes later. “Are you _fucking_ kidding me?”

 

But Natasha was as cool and implacable as she ever was, meeting Steve’s gaze calmly as he turned on her and stepped into her space. Sam was there as well, and he was standing behind Natasha with his arms crossed, a frown on his face. And even as his rage and fury burned through him, Steve knew that this was going to be a two-sided battle, and that it was going to get ugly.

 

“Hello Steven,” she said smoothly, not intimidated in the least by Steve’s presence or size. “What an unexpected surprise. How are you?”

 

“Don’t even try to bullshit your way out of this right now Natasha. What the hell were you doing, going into my house, and planting bugs?”

 

“Found them already, did you? That was fast.” Her voice never rose from its cool purr. Then she cocked her head before saying, “Or was it him?”

 

“You. Had. No. Right. Natasha!”

 

“Oh, I beg to differ. I think given the circumstances, I had every right.” Came her counter.

 

“To violate my privacy like that?”

 

“To make sure you were safe.” And there was finally a shift in her voice, subtle and slight, leaning towards anger.

 

“Did you think we wouldn’t know?” Sam spoke for the first time. “That we wouldn’t figure it out?”

 

“Figure out what?” Steve was still furious, so angry even his teeth were shaking with it.

 

“What you’ve been doing,” Sam said, frowning at Steve.

 

“And who you’ve been doing it with,” Natasha added.

 

“I haven’t been doing anything with anybody!” Steve defended himself.

 

“Or for fuck’s sake Steve, do you think we’re stupid?” Sam finally snapped. “You spent over a year trying to find this guy, lying to us and telling us you were done, when you were really going off on your own at the drop of a hat to chase him cross country. But then suddenly all of that stops and you’re moving back to New York, but instead of moving in with the rest of your teammates at Avengers Tower you start living in some old abandoned building in Brooklyn.”

 

“Yeah, so? What? I can’t have a life of my own outside of the Avengers?”

 

“Is that what you have?” Natasha cut in. “Because we wouldn’t know that. You move back to New York but we never see you anymore.”

 

“What the hell are you talking about? I’m here every day,” Steve argued.

 

“Yes, you are. For training or when we have a job to do. But other than that, you’re never here and we never see you. And when you are here, you’re distracted and can’t wait to get back home. What the hell were we supposed to think?” Natasha was still meeting his glare, matching his words strike for strike.

 

“That maybe I have a right to my own life, and some fucking privacy, like everyone else?”

 

“Of course you do. But we’re your friends Steve. You don’t just cut your friends out of your life all of a sudden and expect them not to notice or worry,” Sam said.

 

“So that gives you the right to break into my home, and violate my privacy like that?”

 

“Yeah man, thanks for telling us about that by the way.” Sam’s arms were still crossed over his chest and he was still frowning at Steve. “You moving into a new house, that’s not something your friends would want to know about.”

 

“That still does not give you the right -“

 

“What do you think the outcome of all of this is going to be, hmm, Steven?” Natasha cut in. “That what? You’re just going to work on the house with your friend and everything is just going to be fine?”

 

“You know what? Before your little stunt today, everything was fine.”

 

“He’s the Winter Soldier, Steven. He’s not the man you knew from over seventy years ago. He’s dangerous. Of course we were going to make sure you were safe.” There was something in Natasha’s voice then, something she was desperately trying to hide, but Steve, who had spent the last months with Bucky learning to listen to his million, tiny inflections, no matter how subtle, heard it.

 

“You’re afraid of him,” Steve said, finally taking a step back to look at her. Natasha cocked her head at him with a dismissive little sneer; but that was also a tell, and Steve recognized it.

 

“We’re afraid for you,” Sam cut in, stepping forward to join in their triangular battle. “You’re doing this all on your own, with no training and no help. That’s just stupid Steve, to go into a situation like that with no back up.”

 

Steve ignored him, focusing his attention on Natasha. “You have every right to be afraid of him. He’s dangerous and he’s deadly. And these past couple of months, he’s only become more so.” Next to him, Sam hissed through his teeth. But Natasha only met his gaze evenly, giving no hint of emotion away. And Steve was even more certain that Bucky and Natasha had the same instructors while in Russia. However, when Steve next spoke, it was to the both Sam and Natasha. “But the only reason why is because he’s been able to pull himself back together from the hell they put him through and everything they did to try and destroy him. He’s putting himself back together and rebuilding himself piece by piece. He’s pulling the best bits from both the Winter Solider and Bucky Barnes and building something new. And you only knew about the Winter Soldier, Natasha, you never knew Bucky like I did, so you don’t know what he’s capable of. But I do, I’ve been watching it happen, and as long as he has the space to do it, it’s going to be amazing when he’s done. He’s going to be amazing.” Steve sighed and took a step back, looking at both Sam and Natasha.

 

“But the shit you pulled today? You took away the only safe space he’s felt he’s had in over seventy years. The one thing, the only thing, I could promise him, and you took that away from the both of us. So thanks for that.”

 

“We only wanted to help.” Sam was the first to break the silence that had grown as heavy and thick as treacle between them, his voice softer, concerned where it had been accusatory before.

 

“And he’s still dangerous Steven,” Natasha refused to be deterred, but there was a different tone to her voice now, sympathetic instead of defensive. “I’ve been where he is, and I know what he’s going through. I wanted to make sure that you were all right, that the both of you were all right.”

 

“Here’s the thing Natasha,” Steve said, the anger less volatile than it had been only moments before, but still there, still burning, bitter, dark and deep. “We’re all dangerous. It’s just part of who we are and why we do what we do. Bucky’s no different. And he deserves a second chance, just like the rest of us. You, more than anyone else, should respect that.” Steve was done. He didn’t think that there was anything left for him to say that didn’t involve words he would never be able to take back. And he had so much to do now. So much damage done in a single afternoon, and so much for him to have to repair, if Bucky would even give him the opportunity. He turned to leave.

 

“Steven,” Natasha was reaching for him, but she wasn’t getting in his way. Sam was studying him, his eyes sympathetic, but still unconvinced.

 

“Don’t you dare ever violate my privacy, or his, like that again. If I want your help, I’ll ask for it. Now back the fuck off. I have to try to fix the mess you made.” And with that, Steve left.

 

***

 

**Steve Rogers to Bucky:** _Bucky, please come back. The house is safe, I swear to you. I’ve taken care of everything. It won’t happen again, I promise. Just please come home._

 

**Automated Response:** _The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, to everyone who has left a comment, thank you so much. And to anyone who is too shy to say anything, **waves** thank you for reading.
> 
> And, um, yeah. **sigh** You can keep on yelling at me in the comments if you like.


	17. Chapter 17

Steve tossed the spoon into the sink, sat back in his seat at the table and sighed. A month. It had been a month since he had last seen Bucky, tearing off down the street as if the hounds of hell had been chasing him. A month since he shared a meal at a kitchen table cluttered with catalogues and paint swatches and the quiet laugh of his best friend. A month since he last had a good night’s sleep. Because once again, Bucky was just…gone. And Steve had no idea this time if he was ever coming back.

 

His phone service had been terminated within an hour of the incident, Steve discovered once he had left the Avengers Tower that fateful Saturday. He had cursed his friends, cursed himself and then cursed at the world, before he took a cab back to their home on 52nd street. The groceries were still on the steps where they had been scattered, the lock plate on the door still shattered, and the floorboard where Bucky had apparently been storing his emergency go bag still smashed. Scattered, shattered, and smashed, just like their lives were at that moment. Steve sighed and set himself to cleaning and repairing all the damage that had been done. It had taken him the rest of day, and he almost lost it when he had pulled the broken floor panel away only to catch a glint of silver from the corner of his eye. When he reached beneath the floor boards with his left hand, his fingers had curled around the silver key, hanging from the ball chain that Bucky had taken to wearing around his neck, and he had almost lost it. Almost, but not quite.

 

Instead, with JARVIS’ assistance, he set to removing all of the bugs from the house. They were well hidden and practically invisible to the eye when he did find them, and Steve had to wonder how Bucky had even known they were there. Thankfully, Natasha had only placed them on the first floor of the house, leaving all the other rooms undisturbed. At least she’d had some respect for his privacy, if only that much.

 

“How did she even find this place?” Steve muttered to himself.

 

_I’m afraid that is my fault, Captain Rogers,_ Steve read when he lifted his vibrating phone from his pocket. _She had been inquiring as to your current whereabouts, and as she is a fellow teammate and friend, I saw no issue with providing her with that information. I am terribly sorry for the oversight, and I can assure you that it will not happen again._

 

“You’re damned right it won’t,” Steve said, and then did something he had never done with JARVIS before, using one of the codes Tony had provided him with ages ago when they had first started working together. “JARVIS, command protocol, Captain Steven Grant Rogers, Code Alpha769Snowman8265478Omega629475823. Seal any and all files, including locations, financial transactions, phone records and video recordings related to said Captain Steven Grant Rogers, Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes and any known variations of his identity. Block any and all inquiries and direct them immediately to my attention, no matter the nature or originator of the request. The only one to have access to those files is to be myself from this point onward.”

 

_Although that is not necessary, and I can assure you of my ongoing discretion, your authorization code has been accepted and those files sealed. Are there to be any exceptions to your order Captain?_ And oh look, JARVIS sounded pissy. Well, that made two of them. But Steve did stop for a moment to think about the question.

 

“The only exception is to be James Buchanan Barnes himself, should he contact you for some reason. And if he does contact you, please let me know immediately.”

 

_Confirm Captain. Your protocols have been enacted and all files sealed. And once again, I apologize for my lack of discretion._

 

“It’s all right JARVIS,” Steve said, although it wasn’t, not really. And it wouldn’t be, not until Bucky was back home where he belonged. “Now let’s reinitialize all of the search parameters we were running back in December and keep an eye out for him.”

 

_Of course, Captain._

 

But there was nothing.

 

At first Steve thought Bucky would make his way back on his own. He did get overwhelmed and would often need to run. But that never lasted more than a few days, especially after Steve made Bucky promise to text him whenever he was away, and once he started insisting on his aftercare regimen. But first two days passed, then three, and then a week, and then two. And still there was nothing.

 

Steve was beyond frantic. There had been no sign, no word, nothing from Bucky. And once June rolled over into July and Steve’s birthday had come and gone, and there had still been no contact from Bucky, Steve found himself losing hope. Bucky was smarter now, more fused and in control of himself than he had ever been (although his reaction to the bugs in the house made Steve wonder if there were still things that Bucky had been hiding from him), and Steve knew that if Bucky did not want to be found, there would be no accidental sightings in any newspaper article from anywhere in the world. He just had to sit and wait and pray and hope.

 

But it was hard. It was so damned hard to come at the end of the day to a house that was empty and still, where there was no one there to talk to, tend to his wounds and feed him after a mission gone bad, or crawl into his bed after a nightmare and rub his shoulders until he fell asleep. No one to tease him or give him shit, or argue over why black and yellow was the stupidest color combination in the world, and ‘ _No Stevie, absolutely not, we are not fucking up the second floor bathroom with that ugly shit.’_

 

He felt like a ghost now, in this building that had so quickly become a home. Both Steve and the house empty and waiting for the right person to walk back through the door.

 

So, on the fifth week, when Steve could no longer take the silence and the emptiness, he moved back into his apartment on Seventh Avenue and waited. He waited, and waited, and waited, and waited, for some sign, for anything, to let him know that Bucky was still out there, still alive, and would one day come home.

 

They were long and grueling days, hazy, hot and lonely. But they did give him time to think, and as he did, he realized that he couldn’t blame either Sam or Natasha for what they had said. How they had gone about it, violating his privacy that way, absolutely. That had all the hallmarks of the Black Widow, information always being her most potent weapon, no matter what she was capable of with her body. Sam’s style had always been more straightforward, but he too had been concerned. Concerned enough to stand with Natasha and back up her decision, even if he disagreed with the means. But they had been worried, and Steve knew he had pulled away from them lately as he focused on his life and the house he had been rebuilding with Bucky. It was just that…

 

Bucky was his, when so little of Steve’s life was his own, and hadn’t been since the day he volunteered to be injected with Erskine’s serum. He was a captain and a leader and a fighter and the one everyone depended on when there were lives that needed to be protected. He was a representation of the Avengers, of America, of the forces of good that stood strong and tall against any evil that tried to hurt innocent lives. He was a public voice, and a role model, and his face and his words could be used to inspire and motivate. He had strength and skills and intelligence he could use in battle, and a body that could take hit after hit and just keep going. He had good friends, the best ones he could admit, when he wasn’t pissed at them, teammates, brothers in arms, and people he would gladly die for.

 

But what he didn’t have, what he hadn’t had since he had been a teenager in Brooklyn, was something that was just his and his alone. A secret, maybe. But also, so much more than that. A friend who got the same jokes as you did, because he understood you completely. An asshole who always gave you shit, simply because he could, but who was always, _always_ the first to defend you to anyone else. A boy, a man, a wounded soldier, who had always loved you, just the way you were, no matter what size your body was, because he saw you for who you were, who you always had been, deep in your soul, and that was who he had wanted by his side.

 

A wounded and scarred man, yes, but one who was getting stronger, and stronger every day, and who even on his crappiest days still tried to share the best of himself with Steve, because that’s who he was and that’s who he had always been. Steve’s best friend, his Bucky, the only thing in the world that had ever belonged to Steve and only Steve.

 

So maybe Steve had been selfish, and possessive, and had not wanted to share. But after over seventy years, Steve thought maybe it was his right to want to keep just something, one single damned thing all to himself.

 

Except now Bucky was gone, and Steve didn’t know what he was going to do.

 

So, when Sam reached out to him a few days after that Saturday, Steve had been cool but polite. And when he reached out again a few days later, Steve allowed himself to remember why Sam was one of his closest friends, the closest friend he had actually, ( _after Bucky, everything and everyone was always and would always be after Bucky_ ), and just talked to him. Not about anything too serious or heavy, but just like they normally did, shooting the shit between them like the friends they had become.

 

And as the days turned into weeks, Steve found himself coming to rely on Sam more and more. He still had a bit of trouble with Natasha, although he knew that would pass eventually and they would return to their own, regular rhythm of friendship and banter, but it would take more time. But with Sam, well, they had always been easy with each other. And Sam was a good man, a solid friend, and as even more time passed and there was still no hint of Bucky coming back, Steve leaned on him even more.

 

“You should have just told us,” Sam said to him one day as they sat together in Steve’s kitchen, drinking copious amounts of coffee and eating doughnuts. “That’s what I’m the most upset about. We’re your friends Steve, and don’t think we didn’t know how important this is to you. I just wish you had trusted us enough to tell us, that’s all.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Steve was finally able to apologize. He could now see how if their situations had been reversed and it had been Sam or Natasha who had withdrawn from his life while obviously keeping secrets, Steve would have probably done the same thing they had, though in a different way.

 

“And it’s a big thing, what you’re trying to do, helping someone recover from what he’s been through. And it’s not easy. I work with vets every day, and I know how hard it can be. I’m not saying that you did anything wrong, or that your heart wasn’t in the right place, but one of the most important things you’ve got to realize is that you both need a support network, and more than just each other. Yes, you too Steve.” Sam raised his hand when Steve was about to protest. “It’s not easy and there are setbacks, things that can come out of nowhere and hit you hard. It’s okay to ask for help. It’s okay to need help. That doesn’t make either of you weak or mean that you’re doing it wrong.”

 

“He was doing fine Sam,” Steve argued.

 

“Yeah, until the surveillance set him off and he disappeared on you,” Sam countered, calmly pouring himself another cup of coffee. “And I wouldn’t know, because you weren’t saying anything to anyone about it. Not about him either, you weren’t saying anything about what it’s been doing to you, and don’t look at me like that Steve Rogers, because I’ve seen it and I know it’s not easy on friends and family either. They need just as much support as the person recovering. I can’t speak for Natasha, but that’s why I was worried once we realized what was going on. You got friends Steve. I know Bucky was your boy from back in the day, but don’t forget about the ones you have now, okay?”

 

“Yeah, okay.” Steve paused to take sip from his own cup, before he continued. “But thanks. And I’m sorry.”

 

“Don’t sweat it,” Sam said, clapping his shoulder. “We’re good.”

 

After that conversation in the kitchen with Sam, something in Steve seemed to crack and he started telling Sam more and more. Sam started coming to New York almost every weekend, and Steve started visiting him again in DC on the weekends he didn’t come down. Steve visited Peggy Carter, staring into the face of the woman he still loved, but who barely recognized him most days now, spent time at the VA center where Sam worked, and just was. But who he was now was not who had been even just a few months ago. Even with Sam, and Natasha, who he was slowly starting to trust again (it was hard not to trust someone whom you fought side by side with, and even if her means had been questionable, she had acted because she had been worried and frightened), Bruce, Tony, and the rest of the Avengers, he was still worried and heartsore and lonely. Because they weren’t Bucky, they would never be Bucky, and Bucky just was, where he had always been, the core of Steve’s heart.

 

It wasn’t fair to them, and it probably wasn’t fair to Bucky, to expect that much of him after everything he had been through. But it was Steve’s heart, and just like Bucky, it was one of the few things that was his and his alone.

 

Whenever he was around, Steve talked to Sam, and Sam let him, sitting quietly over a meal and just listening, while Steve told him everything that had been going on in his life over the past year. He told him about how he had searched for Bucky, and the clues he had relentlessly followed until they finally came face to face that day in the parking lot of the Econo Lodge in Prineville, Oregon. Of how he had asked a Salvadorian grandmother to keep an eye on the house, and the overwhelming relief he felt the day he received that first phone call from her, telling him Bucky had finally, _finally_ come home. Of how, on his own, Bucky had started to clean and then fix up the old row house, while the two of them had danced around each other, Bucky offering food as a lure, and Steve patience and friendship in return. Of being invited into the house, first to help, and then to live, as Bucky’s memories and their trust in each other slowly grew. He told Sam about Bucky’s night terrors and his flashbacks and how horrible they were to witness, but also about how Bucky always made sure Steve still had most of the food and how he tended to Steve’s wounds whenever he returned from a mission with the Avengers. He even told him a little bit about how Bucky had seemed to be two very distinct people at the beginning, one cold, calculating and terrifying, the other warm, friendly and concerned, but how those two sides of him had found a way to meet in the middle and meshed, so that now whenever Bucky met his gaze, Steve only saw the one, unbelievably potent but only dangerous when he felt threatened.

 

He didn’t tell Sam everything. There were some things that were his and Bucky’s alone, like the way Bucky always crawled into bed with him when Steve had a nightmare, and how the smell of his shampoo on Steve’s pillow was such a comfort after a rough night. Or how their bodies seemed to lean towards each other now as they worked and trained and laughed. How Bucky trusted him to lead when they ran, or so many other little things in their life, that spoke of trust and faith and companionship, until Bucky either got bored, or thought Steve was being an idiot and then all bets were off. Sancocho late at night, the scent of cinnamon and clove against his cheek, when Bucky had leaned over his shoulder, and the way Bucky screamed and begged to be killed when trapped in one of his night terrors. These were personal things, private things, that Steve couldn’t, wouldn’t share, with anyone but Bucky.

 

But he still talked. And Sam always listened, sometimes shocked, sometimes surprised, and sometimes rolling his eyes when he thought Steve had done something extraordinarily stupid. His eye rolls weren’t as sharp as Bucky’s, yet Steve was able to find comfort in their familiarity. But Sam was always patient, and his shoulder was always there for Steve to lean on, and he found himself taking great comfort in that, as one month rolled into two, from July to August and then into the first half of September.

 

And then, in the third week of the month, Steve received a call from the senior care facility in DC, informing him that Peggy Carter had died.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um yeah. That happened too. **points to Steve Rogers needs a hug tag.** 
> 
> Sorry. You can yell at me or give Steve a hug in the comments.


	18. Chapter 18

Two days later, Steve was standing in the crowd at Arlington National Cemetery, blinking against the sunlight as Peggy’s casket was slowly lowered into the ground. He was wearing a black suit and Sam was by his side as they watched Peggy’s children slowly toss small shovelfuls of dirt on top of her coffin. Steve felt as dry as that dirt, as old and worn as the bones of what were soon to be Peggy’s final neighbors as he stood there and stared at the grave. Another link, another tie to the world he had come from and who he had been, was now gone, never to return, and he was the last one left standing.

 

He had spoken at the church and served as a pallbearer. There would be another memorial service tomorrow, for friends and family and those who worked with Peggy at SHIELD, and Steve was scheduled to speak. Another weight on his shoulders, another task that needed to be done, and Steve knew that he would do it, that he would speak to the audience, and tell them all about this amazing woman who had always fought for what was right and been one of the strongest people he had ever known. While inside, his heart would scream and howl and rage _alonealonealone_ , we are always left alone.

 

He must have lost some time, because when he blinked, the priest had finished speaking and the crowds were moving away from the graveside, offering sympathy and condolences to one another. It was a large group; Peggy had been loved and admired and respected by so many people from around the world. Indistinguishable from one another in their blacks, they converged and hugged and offered their shoulders. Several had come up to him with open arms and kind words, and Sam remained a steady, constant presence at his back. But Steve still felt alone, an island unto himself in this sea of grief.

 

Until there was a small break in the procession of mourners, Sam having turned away to speak to someone behind him, and Steve suddenly felt himself being pulled into a tight hug by a strong pair of arms.

 

“ _Oh Stevie,_ ” a familiar voice whispered into his ear. “ _I am so, so sorry._ ”

 

“Bucky?” Steve gasped, jerking into those arms that were pulling him in even tighter, against a neck covered by hair that smelled of cinnamon and clove.

 

“Yeah Stevie, it’s me. I’m here, and I’ve got you, and you’re going to be okay,” Bucky, _Bucky_ answered, his arms still around Steve. And Steve shivered, hanging onto Bucky’s arms in relief.

 

“Oh Bucky, Bucky, thank god. You’re here, you’re here, _thank god_ ,” Steve murmured into Bucky’s hair, his neck, against that heartbeat that he knew better than his own. “You were gone, and I was so worried and then Peggy…”

 

“I know Stevie, I know. And I am so, so sorry. But I’m here now and I’ve got you and you’re going to be all right,” Bucky whispered back, his arms never loosening their hold, his embrace as strong as it had ever been.

 

“Steve, who’s this?” Steve heard Sam ask from behind him, and realized that Sam must have noticed the way he had jerked, and witnessed the entire exchange. Steve did not want to let go of Bucky, didn’t want to risk him slipping away again when it had been so long. He knew that  Sam was not going to be put off, and he had no idea how Bucky would react to his presence. But then Bucky nodded, a slight, quick movement, probably imperceptible to anyone else, loosened his hold, and took a small step back.

 

“Sam,” Steve said, looking over his shoulder at this man who was his friend, comrade and brother-in-arms with a small smile. It was tiny, fractured and weak, but it was the most honest smile he had been able to give in over ten weeks. “This – this is Bucky.”

 

“Bucky?” Sam made his own jerk of surprise, both of his eyebrows raised on his forehead.

 

“Yeah, Sam, it is.” Steve turned back to Bucky, who was eyeing Sam critically. “Bucky, this is my friend, Sam Wilson.”

 

“I know,” Bucky said coolly, before he tilted his head slightly in Sam’s direction. “Wilson.”

 

“Bucky,” Sam replied cautiously. But then Bucky was turning away from Sam and leaning back into Steve to speak softly into his ear.

 

“Listen Stevie, I can’t stay long. The place is crawling with Feds and eventually somebody’s gonna notice me.” Steve started to shake his head. Bucky had just gotten here, and he couldn’t let him disappear again, leaving him all alone. “Ssh, Stevie, ssh. Listen. I’m here, and I’m not leaving. You finish up here and do what you gotta do. I’ll pick up a couple of pizzas and meet you back at Wilson’s apartment when you’re done, okay?”

 

“Promise Buck?”

 

“Yeah Stevie, I promise you. I’ll see you in a few.” Bucky gave his arm one last squeeze, before he stepped back, gave Sam another slight nod, and then turned around and melted like a shadow in the river of black around them.

 

“Where the hell is he going? He just got here and he’s going to run off like that again? What the fuck?” Sam asked from his side.

 

“Nah,” Steve said, feeling both lighter and heavier than he had in weeks. “He’s going to meet us back at your apartment.”

 

“My apartment?” Sam’s eyebrows were now racing each other to see which one could first reach the top of his forehead. “How the hell does he even know where I live? And how is he going to get in? He doesn’t have a key.”

 

All Steve could do was shrug. “He’s Bucky.” It was as simple and inescapable as that.

 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sam asked. Steve didn’t even bother to reply as he turned to meet the next person who had come up to him to offer their condolences. Sam would learn. He would have to if he ever expected to deal with Bucky on his own.

 

An hour and a half later, Sam was still grumbling about it as they made their way back to his home from the cemetery. The days were getting shorter and it was already dark by the time they started to climb the steps that led to Sam’s apartment.

 

“Look,” Sam was saying as he pulled his keys from his suit pocket. “My lights aren’t even on. I’m telling you, he’s not going to be here.”

 

“No, he’s here,” Steve said as he followed Sam into his hallway and toward the last door on the second floor.

 

“Oh really? And how do you figure that, Cap?” Sam asked as he slipped his key into the lock.

 

“I can feel him.” And he could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> =^._.^=


	19. Chapter 19

**INTERLUDE – SAM**

 

Sam loved Steve. He really did. He was an excellent fighter, an amazing leader, and a great friend; intelligent, strong, brave and fiercely devoted. The best of all men. But that didn’t mean that sometimes Sam didn’t want to strangle him. And this thing with Bucky, coming right on the heels of Peggy’s death, it was going to rip him apart and Sam was going to be left having to pick up the pieces, _again_. At best, Bucky was always going to be a flight risk. At worst, and more likely, he was unstable, and unless Steve was going to be able to take a step back and look at the entire situation with clearer eyes, that instability was going to end up hurting him, again, and again, and again.

 

Yet here Steve was, practically dancing in his skin as they made their way up the stairs to Sam’s apartment, expecting Bucky to be there, with this _bullshit_ about feeling him there, when Sam knew, _he just knew_ , there was going to be nothing but Sam’s couch and Steve’s broken heart. He was girding himself to deal with Steve’s disappointment as he unlocked his door and allowed Steve to walk past him into the darkened apartment.

 

Except…

 

Except, as Sam stepped inside and flicked on the living room lights, there was the man himself, rising slowly from Sam’s couch, his arms already reaching out for Steve.

 

And then Steve did something Sam had never seen him do before, was pretty sure no one had ever seen him do before, and he just collapsed, trembling and helpless, into Bucky’s waiting embrace.

 

“Bucky,” he whimpered, he actually whimpered, while Bucky pulled him into his arms and held him tight.

 

“I know Stevie, I know,” Bucky whispered, as he carefully guided Steve backwards and towards the couch. “But I’m here, and I’ve got you now, and you’re safe. You’re safe, and it’s going to be all right.” Bucky pressed forward until Steve was sitting down, and then he crouched in front of him, leaning back slightly so that he could run his eyes over Steve, carefully studying him. He reached up with his right hand and gently tucked a stray lock of hair behind Steve’s ear. “Oh Stevie.” His voice was a soft, dry rasp, with a hint of a Brooklyn accent, before he was reaching up again, pulling Steve against him and pressing his face into the right side of his neck.

 

Steve had been stoic upon hearing the news of Peggy’s death. He had spoken softly of her to Sam the night before, but his eyes had been dry, even if his shoulders had been locked tightly against his grief. Sam generally thought of Steve as a bit on the private side when it came to his own emotions. He always let you know when he was passionate about something, or what he thought was the right thing to do. But when it came to the smaller things, the deeper intricacies of a human heart, Steve kept a lot of that to himself. Except, apparently, around Bucky.

 

In Bucky’s arms, Steve sobbed and cried and let go of every bit of pain and grief and loss he had been hiding behind the shield of the man known to the world as Captain America. He let go of all of it, simply accepting that Bucky was there and would be strong enough to handle it and keep his heart safe.

 

As he knelt there, crouched in front of Steve, Bucky simply took all of Steve’s burdens, let Steve peel them away, and held him there, sheltered and shielded, as if it was nothing more than what he had been born to do.

 

There was a trust there, and an intimacy to it unlike anything Sam had ever seen, as Bucky knelt on the living room floor, solid and steady as an oak, crooning to Steve softly, “I know, I know Stevie, she was your best girl and you’ve always loved her with all of your heart, _ssh_ Stevie, it’s all right, _I know_ ,” while Steve clung to Bucky and held on as if it were the only thing that was keeping him from shattering into a million pieces.

 

But then Sam took another look, noticing this time the way Bucky’s right hand was resting at the base of Steve’s neck, and the way his fingers were curling gently through the ends of Steve’s hair, or how he would only lean back for a fraction of a second to press his forehead to Steve’s before Steve was again pulling him close to bury his face into Bucky’s neck and he found himself thinking, _oh._

 

_Oh._

 

Because Steve, in all of their discussions about Bucky, had never once mentioned this. Had never even hinted that this had been something that they shared, that they were to one another, that it looked like they were finding their way to again, as one man held the other while he mourned for the loss of the woman he had loved. It explained so many things, like Steve’s desperate pursuit of Bucky across the country, his refusal to give up on his friend, and his protectiveness of him now, while complicating so many others. And Steve had never said.

 

When he glanced up again, Bucky was glaring at him. In his eyes there was a mix of ice and fire, and he had turned all his focus on Sam. Sam found himself fighting not to take a step back. Because Steve had talked of this, of how sometimes there seemed to be two sides to Bucky, one filled with warmth, compassion and humor, and one that was all deadly intent and terrifying cunning. Steve said that when Bucky was like that, he was always reminded of a jaguar, stalking its prey through the dark. Sam could see that now, see how that side of Bucky had risen to the surface and was shielding its mate, protecting Steve. Or maybe Steve had gotten it wrong, because as he met Bucky’s gaze, Sam didn’t see a jaguar, but a dragon that had curled around its hoard with its body and scales, but was holding onto its treasure with hands that were secure and soft, protecting Steve as if there was nothing more precious or sacred in the world.

 

It was a warning and a threat, and Sam felt both the cold and truth of it in his bones. But then Steve made a soft sound, and Bucky leaned down to whisper something silently into Steve’s ear, while gently placing the palm of his left hand over Steve’s heart. Steve jerked, just once, but then he nodded and melted back into Bucky’s arms while Bucky continued to soothe and console him, keeping Steve’s face tucked carefully into the side of his neck.

 

Sam took a step back, and then another. Because this was private and not meant to be seen, and it deserved its respect. Sam turned around and left the living room, heading towards his own bedroom, so Steve and Bucky could be alone.

 

***

 

Later that night, Sam left his bedroom and meandered down the hallway into the kitchen in search of a glass of water, scratching at his chest as he went.

 

It had been a strange evening, to say the least, and Sam found his thoughts were too convoluted and swirled to allow him to sleep. Once he left the living room, he had taken a shower and changed, returning to find that Steve and Bucky had separated and were sitting on the couch, close but not touching like they had been. And on the coffee table were four boxes from Di Farras, Sam’s favorite pizzeria.

 

“Um, thanks?” Sam said as he reached for one of the boxes. Bucky just nodded at him in the same way he had back at Arlington, and waited until Steve made a selection before taking a slice of his own. They didn’t talk much; Sam couldn’t tell if it was because they were simply that comfortable in each other’s presence or if it was because there were so many things that needed to be said between them, and they couldn’t do that there in Sam’s apartment where they would not have any privacy. The only time things seemed to get a little heated was when Bucky told Steve he had to finish doing what he had come here to do, but that Bucky wasn’t going to stay.

 

“I can’t stay Stevie,” Bucky said. He tended to use that nickname more often than anything else, once in a while tossing out a Steve, but never a Steven or Cap like most of Steve’s fellow Avengers. “And you’ve got things you gotta do, things you need to say that you will never get a chance to say again. For yourself even more than for Peggy.”

 

“Bucky –“ Steve began, but Bucky cut him off.

 

“Remember what I told you, what I said?”

 

“That don’t matter Buck.” Sam could see Steve was starting to get mad, that this had every possibility of turning into a fight.

 

But if Sam could see it, then Bucky definitely could as well. He reached out with his right hand and wrapped it firmly around Steve’s left wrist. “But I swear to you Stevie, I swear to you, I will be in the house when you get back to Brooklyn. Take all the time you need, I promise you I will be there when you’re done.”

 

“Living there?” Steve asked, absolutely focused on this point.

 

“Yeah Stevie, living there if I’m still welcome,” Bucky sighed.

 

“Don’t be an asshole Buck. Of course you are.”

 

“But you know we still got shit to talk about.”

 

“Yeah I know Buck, but just promise me…”

 

“Yeah, I promise Stevie. I’ll be there, I swear.”

 

That seemed to be enough to satisfy Steve, and he went back to eating his pizza after that with a nod. Bucky fell quiet, barely saying anything at all, but Steve didn’t appear to mind. He was obviously happy enough just to have Bucky there, and he was willing to let everything temporarily slide. They spent the rest of the night with Sam and Steve reminiscing about Peggy. Sam had barely known her at all, meeting her twice when Steve had asked him along on his visits, but Bucky seemed interested as they told their stories, even smiling at a few from Steve. As they spoke, Sam glanced at Bucky, trying to casually take in any details he hadn’t had the chance to notice before.

 

Bucky had slipped into the crowd at the cemetery wearing dark jeans, a navy pea coat and a black newsboy cap. His eyes were clear, and he had obviously washed before arriving. But as Sam studied him, he could see how Bucky looked thin for a man of his size, his cheeks gaunt and his collarbones protruding from where they could be seen at the neck of his shirt. The clothes were well cared for, but obviously worn, and the jeans were starting to look a little thin at the knees. His right hand was clean, but the skin was cracked at the knuckles and in between his fingers, and he had bitten the nails down to the quick. Wherever he had been, he’d been living hard. Maybe not as rough as so many of the others who disappeared on the streets, but not so easily either. But nothing about him stood out, or merited a second glance, and that was probably what mattered more to him than anything else.

 

But he was calm and steady as he sat on the couch, focusing on Steve when he spoke and absolutely aware of everything going on around him. Deadly, yes. Explosive, probably. But not a danger to anyone as long as he wasn’t provoked or Steve wasn’t threatened. In fact most of his attention seemed to be on Steve. He would slide over another can of soda when he noticed Steve’s was starting to run low, and he grabbed the last slice of the sausage and meatball pizza before Sam could, sliding it onto Steve’s plate. Steve frowned at him for that, urging him to take it, but Bucky just waved him off and started eating a slice of plain instead. He also could tell when Steve was getting upset about Peggy, and would lean against Steve’s shoulder in an offer of support, or nudge him with his knee, sometimes adding in something along the lines of “Tell Wilson about the time Peggy hotwired that Nazi jeep and ran over four of those assholes as they were trying to get away.” Steve would snort, but then launch into the story, while Bucky leaned back and quietly resumed eating his plain pizza at Steve’s side.

 

The evening went on for a few more hours this way, until Steve had yawned and then excused himself for the evening, Bucky quietly following him into the guest room. Sam didn’t even want to know what the two of them were going to do in that room, but as he hadn’t heard any noises coming through the walls, he assumed they just talked for a bit before Bucky left for whatever reasons he felt he had to.

 

Sam was comparing and contrasting the Bucky from Steve’s descriptions against the one he had himself observed, when he padded into the kitchen and flicked on the light beneath the microwave. He was reaching for a glass from the cabinets when he turned, and saw Bucky sitting there, quiet and still, at his kitchen table.

 

“Holy shit! What the fuck are you doing there?” Sam gasped, and no, he didn’t care what anyone said, he was not clutching his heart with his hand like one of those silly women in frills and corsets from the romance novels his mother read.

 

“Be quiet. Don’t wake Steve. He finally fell asleep.” Bucky’s voice was soft as he slowly rose from his seat, a shadow amongst all the other shadows and just as silent.

 

“Don’t wake Steve? Don’t scare people half to death in the middle of the night by stalking them in their kitchens. What the hell is wrong with you? I still don’t even know how you managed to get into my apartment.” Sam would later admit that he was probably still mad about all of it, as this man stood there in his kitchen staring at him.

 

“Your locks are for shit,” was all Bucky said.

 

“Did you ever hear of respecting someone’s space?” Sam knew it was a mistake as soon as he said it, after what Natasha had done. But Bucky continued to stare at him, Sam unable to decipher any meaning or intent from his expression. He seemed to find whatever he was looking for, because he cocked his head in Sam’s direction, and made his way towards the kitchen doorway.

 

“I’ll be getting out of your hair now,” he said as he moved past Sam, his steps silent in the night.

 

“Are you sure you can’t stay and wait for him, so you can go home together. He’s been worried sick over you for the past two months. After all of that, the least you can do is wait a day so he doesn’t have to worry you won’t be there when he gets back.” Sam could feel his own anger rising as he stared at Bucky’s back, this so-called best friend of Steve’s, who came and went as he pleased, and had not reached out, even once, to assure Steve that he was all right. As Bucky turned around to face him, that anger kept Sam’s feet firmly planted in the ground, and gave him the ability to meet Bucky’s gaze head on.

 

“He knows why I can’t stay, and he understands. And I promised him that I’ll be waiting for him in the house when he gets back to Brooklyn, and I will be.”

 

“And why can’t you stay, huh? What’s so important that you’ve got to leave in the middle of the night like a thief?” Sam growled. Bucky just continued to stare at him, his head slightly tilted, but his expression never changing. Until he slowly raised his right hand, curled into a fist, and held it out over the kitchen counter. He straightened his fingers and Sam heard the faint sound of tapping, as if four grains of rice had fallen to the surface.

 

“I found these in your apartment when I got here. Listening devices. One in each room of the house, including your bedroom,” Bucky said while Sam leaned over the counter to stare down at the four, tiny little disks, each one no bigger than the head of a pin. “I removed and deactivated them, figuring you would want your space respected.” And there was the blow, dry and sharp, for Sam’s comment from before. “But the Widow knows.” Bucky glanced at the clock. “I’ve tweaked the spider’s web, and she’s going to come to see who’s pulled on her strings. She’ll be here in less than six hours. And I can’t be here when she comes. Steve’s already buried one woman he’s loved this week. I don’t think he would want to bury a second one.”

 

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Sam whispered as he peered down at the four listening devices lying crushed on his kitchen counter. “What the hell did she ever do to you?”

 

Bucky was quiet for so long Sam thought he may have actually left without Sam noticing. But when he looked up, Bucky was still there, his expression the same as it had been before.

 

“Samuel Thomas Wilson, codename Falcon. Born September 23rd, 1978 in Mount Sinai Hospital, Harlem, New York. Darlene Wilson, mother, Paul Wilson, father. Formerly pararescue serving with the United States Air Force and the Air National Guard,” he began to recite in a voice so cold it sent chills running up Sam’s spine. “We fought before, in this city, and I ripped off your wings and threw you from the helicarrier.” And then, even worse, Bucky looked at him and grinned. “I’m leaving Stevie in your care. Make sure he gets home safely, or you’ll wish the worst thing I ever did to you was rip off your wings and throw you from a helicarrier. That, at least, would have been quick.”

 

Bucky glanced at the bugs on the counter, cocked his head in Sam’s direction one last time, before he winked at him, turned, and slipped out of Sam’s apartment and into the night.

 

“I swear to fucking god, y’all don’t pay me enough to put up with this shit!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, some serious writer bits here for anyone who may be curious. (Please feel free to skip if this kind of stuff bores the stuffing out of you. =) )
> 
> When the idea for the Responsible For What You Tame series came to me (which I grudgingly called The Thing in my head), there were very few things I knew about it. I knew that it was going to be a series, that would start with Steve hunting for Bucky and proceed to their healing together. The next thing I "knew" as it were, was the prologue for The Hunt, which basically popped into my head as written, with pretty much no changes. The final thing that came to me was the scene in this chapter, where Sam walks in on Bucky comforting Steve in his living room. That image was crystal clear in my head, and wouldn't leave me alone. I knew nothing about it, except that it was from Sam's POV. So basically, everything you've read in both The Hunt and The Taming so far was me figuring out how Steve and Bucky got to that point. There's still more to go, but well, to anyone who may have been wondering, that was pretty much the inspiration for The Responsible For What You Tame series. **shrugs**
> 
> Thanks for letting me ramble, and as always, any and all comments are GREATLY appreciated. **hugs**


	20. Chapter 20

_‘Sam’s place was bugged when I got here. I pulled all of them, but the Widow’s going to know. And she’s going to come. I can’t be here when she gets here Stevie, or I won’t be able to keep my promise to you, and be waiting for you at home when you’re done,’_ Bucky had whispered into his ear last night, so softly that anyone without enhanced hearing would not have been able to make out the words.  And then he had pressed his left hand to Steve’s heart, right where the key hung from its chain, and slipped it into his fingers. ‘ _Don’t forget to replace the key. She’s going to check for it when she gets here.’_

 

Steve stared up at the ceiling of Sam’s guest bedroom the next morning and sighed. There was definitely something going on between those two, but between Peggy dying and everything else, Steve couldn’t even begin to guess how he was going to handle it.

 

But Steve had needed, and Bucky had come, surprising him at the cemetery, but there and warm and alive. And he had been waiting for him at Sam’s apartment, just like he said he would. He’d lost weight, at least thirty pounds from what Steve had been able to tell, but other than that, he seemed to be doing all right. They hadn’t talked much; Steve knew they needed to, but Bucky had come to comfort and soothe, take as much of Steve’s own pain as he could onto his shoulders, just like he had always done. And then he followed Steve into the guest bedroom, and had him lie on his side while he rubbed Steve’s back and crooned softly to him, telling him in that raspy but beloved voice that it was all right, it was all going to be all right, Steve was safe and Bucky was going to take care of him.

 

Steve had fallen asleep and slept for a solid six hours, for the first time in months.

 

And when he woke, he knew Bucky was gone, just like he said he would be.

 

After he performed his usual morning ritual in the bathroom, Steve made his way into the kitchen to find Sam already there, sitting at the table, his forehead cupped in his palms. In front of him were four crushed listening devices, identical to the ones Steve had found in the row house. Sam was glaring at them.

 

“Ah,” Steve said, as he reached for the pot of coffee from the maker.

 

“Yeah,” Sam mumbled. “Ah.”

 

“It’s a bit different from the other side, isn’t it?”

 

“There was one in my bedroom. I have sex in there, Steve.” And then Sam sighed. “You know, out of the two of them, I can’t decide which one is worse.”

 

“Well, I’m pretty sure they were both trained by some of the same people if that helps at all.”

 

“It really, really doesn’t.” Sam grumbled, before he fell quiet and watched Steve as he fixed himself a cup of coffee, and then a bowl of cold cereal. His gaze felt very different from Bucky’s. Not as calculating, but just as perceptive, if in a different way. Steve decided to ignore it as he sat at the table and sliced up some bananas for his cereal, Sam’s dark brown eyes following his every movement.

 

“You never said anything,” Sam finally said into the quiet morning air.

 

“’Bout what?” Steve asked around a mouthful of Cheerios.

 

“All of those times you sat there and told me all about you and Bucky, you never once said that it was like that between the two of you.”

 

“Like what?” Steve’s voice was a growl in his own ears.

 

“Oh, come off it man. I was there last night. I saw how it was between the two of you. Did you think I wasn’t going to figure it out? It was obvious Steve. I just don’t get why you never said anything. It’s not like I would have judged you, or given a shit. Most people won’t these days. And it would have explained a lot.”

 

“What was obvious, Sam?” Steve glared at him, his fingers clenched around the spoon he held. Because this was not Sam’s, and it was not his to guess or ask about, when it was something that once, and only once, had been between him and Bucky.

 

But Sam’s eyes were kind and his voice gentle when he next spoke. “That you love each other, that you’re both in love with each other.”

 

“It’s not like that, Sam.”

 

“The hell it’s not Steve. The way you reacted when he showed up yesterday, and the way he spent all of last night looking at you. It’s there, you can see it. I just wish you had said something.”

 

“Leave it Sam.” Steve’s throat was getting tighter and tighter with each word he spoke, to the point where he doubted he would ever be able to swallow another mouthful of food ever again.

 

“It’s okay Steve, it’s no big deal.” Sam kept pressing, kept pushing his point, and Steve knew that if Sam kept at it, he was going to snap.

 

“It’s not okay Sam.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Because it’s complicated!” That was the easiest way to put it; it encapsulated everything and absolutely nothing about his relationship with Bucky.

 

“Well no shit Sherlock, it’s complicated,” Sam snorted. “The guy’s got a shitload of issues he’s working through. But that doesn’t mean he doesn’t love you. And it doesn’t mean you can’t love him like that either.” When Steve didn’t respond, Sam paused and stared at Steve’s hands which were shaking so hard the table was rattling.

 

“Steve,” he said, so gently Steve could barely hear his voice over the pounding of his own heart. “Do you love Bucky like that?”

 

Something shattered in Steve then, everything crumbling to pieces around him and leaving him raw. Except for a single ribbon of gold, wrapped so carefully around Steve’s heart that it had always been held safe. The one that had and had always had Bucky’s name on it.

 

“Sam,” Steve whispered when he could finally find the words, looking up into that kind and understanding face, so familiar and dear to him after all of this time. “I have loved Bucky my entire life. Ever since I was six years old, and this kid came out of nowhere to defend me in a fight, and then decided he wanted to be my best friend. I loved him then and I love him now and I will love him every day for the rest of my life.”

 

“Okay Steve,” Sam said, reaching out to take the spoon from Steve’s trembling fingers. “It’s okay.” Steve just swallowed around the lump in his throat and shook his head. After a few more minutes of silence passed, Sam pressed on, his voice filled with gentleness and compassion. “Were the two of you actually lovers?”

 

Steve snorted at that. Sam’s voice was gentle and compassionate, but the actual words were as sharp and as cutting as a sword.

 

“I don’t know,” Steve was finally able to answer. “Maybe.”

 

“Maybe?” It was obvious that Sam was confused. But Steve just shook his head. Because he loved and trusted Sam, trusted him almost as much as he trusted Bucky, but he wasn’t going to give Sam this. It was his, one of the few things left that were, and it was sacred and precious, meant to be shared only between him and Bucky, if he ever remembered, and maybe God.

 

_Of a night, the last night they had, before Bucky was going to be shipped off to war. There had been two girls that Bucky found, and he had wanted to celebrate his last night in Brooklyn and have a good time, before his life was irrevocably changed. But the second girl had no interest in spending time with a scrawny little loud-mouthed shrimp who even the army didn’t want, and Steve had gone back to their apartment, despondent and depressed, terrified that he would never see Bucky again, and he wasn’t even going to get this last night. He had crawled into the bed they shared in their cramped room, to conserve on heat and so that Bucky would always be able to tell when Steve was having trouble breathing, and curled in on himself. Five minutes later, Bucky was there, clicking his teeth at Steve in that way he had as he carefully removed his army issued jacket and shirt, before joining Steve in the bed, and wrapping his arms around him as he always did, Bucky’s chest to Steve’s back, so they both knew they were safe in the world._

_“Gonna miss you Buck,” Steve had whispered into the dark. Instead of teasing him or making some blithe rejoinder, Bucky remained silent, holding Steve close, pulling him in even tighter than he usually did._

_And then Bucky did something he had never done before, and laid a soft, warm kiss to the back of Steve’s neck. Steve had gasped, every nerve in his body suddenly on fire from that single press of Bucky’s lips to his skin. Because he had wanted, oh god how he had wanted, but he had never dared to ask. Bucky was strong and fierce and beautiful, with his bright blue eyes, long limbs, and broad shoulders. But his heart was all encompassing and brave, and he shared it, just like he shared his laughter and his sense of adventure and his undying loyalty with Steve as if it was such a simple thing, such an easy thing to give. So Steve had walked a very fine line between being content and wanting more._

_But now, in the dark of their room, Bucky was reaching out to him and asking for more as he whispered into Steve’s ear, “Can I Stevie? Just this once? Please. Something to make me fight to come home, so that I know you’ll be here waiting for me.” Steve could only nod, breathless for the first time not because of his weak lungs but something else, something more, that he had wanted for as long as he could remember._

_Bucky had laughed then, a soft and pleased sound in the night, before he began to run his hands over Steve’s body, all the while laying soft, hot kisses to the back of Steve’s neck, his jaw, his ears. His fingers had been steady and intuitive as they slipped under Steve’s shirt to discover and explore the sharp cuts of Steve’s ribs, the concave curve of his abdomen, the prominent jut of his hip bone. And all the while Bucky murmured in his ear, soft whispers of praise and appreciation, his hands never ceasing in their knowing caresses._

_And then, and then, Bucky had run the fingertips of his left hand slowly down Steve’s throat while his other hand reached in between his legs, taking Steve’s dick into his hold, letting out a contented purr at what he found._

_“Well look at you.” His breath had been hot against Steve’s ear. “Not so small down here, are you?” And then he began to stroke, tightening his fingers around Steve’s hardened shaft, until it was throbbing and aching, and Steve thought he would explode from the pulsing heat of it alone. Steve had shivered and clung, moaning his responses as he heard himself begging for more. And Bucky, who had never denied him a single thing, gave Steve everything he asked for and more, until Steve burst and felt himself fly into a million pieces, spilling hot and wet into Bucky’s hand. Behind him, Bucky had gone suddenly still, before he gasped, shook and then let out a long, slow laughing exhale, just as Steve felt something hot and wet spreading across the back of his pants, over the curve of his ass._

_“Oh, look at you, look at you Stevie, so beautiful like this. I always knew you would be,” Bucky said to him as he turned Steve in his arms and covered his forehead, his cheeks, his eyelids and then finally his lips in soft, soft, oh so very soft kisses. And then right in front of Steve’s very eyes, without any shame whatsoever, he lifted his right hand to his lips, and slowly licked every drop of Steve’s spend from his fingers, as content as a cat with a bowlful of cream. “Oh, and you taste even sweeter. I have to come home now, just so I can get another drink of this.” Bucky leaned forward, and pressed his lips once more to Steve’s, sharing the flavor of Steve in his mouth, bitter and salty, but just strong enough to mask the taste of Steve’s own tears._

_The next day, Steve walked with Bucky down to the docks to see him off. At the last instant, right before Bucky disappeared from view, he turned around, and with a jaunty salute, gave Steve one last wink._

_They never shared another night like that again._

 

And Steve was not going to share that with Sam now.

 

“We had one night together Sam,” Steve told him. “Just one, and then the next day Bucky was shipped off to Europe to go fight the Nazis.”

 

“And that was it? Even when the two of you finally saw each other again?” Sam asked.

 

“When we finally saw each other again, Bucky was a prisoner or war, and I had a new body, and everything was suddenly different.”

 

“And you never even talked about it?” And here it was, the dark side of every gift he had ever been given, bitter, black bile that Steve would forever taste at the back of his throat.

 

“No,” he whispered, taking a second, just a second so he could gather his courage and admit his truths so at least one person would know how badly he had failed. “I had this new body, and the strength to finally do all of the things I’d always wanted to do. All of a sudden, all these girls, who would have never bothered to look at me even twice before, were interested in me. I could go out and fight, and come back and have the prettiest girl at every base want to dance with me and it was like – it was like…”

 

“Like you were going through a second puberty,” Sam finished for him.

 

“Yeah,” Steve laughed dryly. “Except without the wheezing lungs, crooked spine, chicken legs and bum ears. And people were finally listening to what I had to say, and I had already met Peggy, and she was amazing and smart and funny and believed in all of the same things I did, and I loved her Sam. I loved her with all of my heart and I still love her, even though she’s gone.”

 

“How did Bucky take all of that?”

 

“Bucky?” Steve shook his head and fiddled with the spoon he had used to stir his coffee. “He was mad about the serum, furious that I had found a way to get involved in the war. But other than that,” Steve shrugged, “he did what he always did. He followed me into trouble, and watched my back, and always smiled at me and Peggy whenever he saw us together, saying I had finally found a dame tough enough to handle me.” With a laugh and a smile and a look in his eyes that Steve had never understood until now, when he felt himself looking at Bucky in the same way. “He just…He…”

 

“He loved you enough to let you go,” Sam said gently.

 

“Yeah, he did.” Steve nodded. “And I don’t think I understood that until much, much later. I always had to fight for everything in my life, and I couldn’t imagine how letting go of someone was a gift you could give them. But Bucky did.”

 

“Jesus, Steve.”

 

“And I was so stupid Sam, so fucking stupid. Because it was obvious he was suffering and not the same, and I never even noticed. He was twitchy when he never had been before, and he couldn’t keep any weight on. And I just thought it was the war, that it was rough on everyone. Because he was still there, and we were fighting the good fight. I planned and led the charge, and Bucky backed me up and took care of the men, made sure that we all had everything we needed, while I got all of the credit, and his body must have been killing him. But I was never good at noticing the small details, that had always been Bucky’s job. Before the serum he could always tell when I was going to get sick, before even I knew, just by the sound of my breathing. But when it was his turn, and he needed someone to notice his details, I just…I just didn’t. I just didn’t take the time to look. He was Bucky, and he’d always been there, and I took it for granted that he always would be. And then one day he wasn’t, and it was my fault.” Steve couldn’t go on; his throat had closed and his vision had gone blurry. Sam moved the coffee cup from in front of Steve and carefully placed a napkin in his hand.

 

“And now he’s back, after being abandoned and tortured for over seventy years, and he’s pulling himself back together, and I’ve got you and Nat giving me shit for wanting to help him, when I would do anything, _anything_ he asked of me, just to help make it better for him.”

 

“Okay, okay, okay, back up Steve, back up.” Sam reached out and placed a hand on Steve’s shoulder. “First off, you didn’t abandon him. You didn’t know. There’s a big difference between the two, and that was not your fault.”

 

“Of course it was my fault. Bucky was on that fucking train because I ordered him to be. He was protecting me with my own goddamned shield when he was hit and flung from the door and if I had just been faster-“

 

“It was war, Steve,” Sam cut him off. “And I’m not saying that it’s not tragic, or that every soldier that doesn’t get to come home isn’t an awful, horrible loss. Because it is. But it’s war. It’s brutal and it’s ugly, and not every soldier gets to come back. And Bucky knew that, probably better than you, since you found him in a POW camp when you got over there. He knew the risks and he made his own choices, and it was horrible what happened to him, I would not wish that on anyone, but it was _not your fault_. You hear me?” Sam met Steve’s glare with one of his own, before he went on. “No, you don’t, but that’s okay. I’ll get it through your thick skull eventually. And if I can’t, I’ll just give Bucky a call, because I’ve known that dude for five minutes, and I can already tell he is a master at not letting you get away with any bullshit.

 

“Secondly, you didn’t know Steve. You didn’t know he was still alive, and I mean, who would have even considered that given all this time. You didn’t know he was still alive and you didn’t know he was being tortured and his personality eradicated for the past seventy years.” At Steve’s flinch Sam held up his hand. “But hear me out. The second you did know who he was, nothing was going to stop you from finding him and bringing him home. And you did Steve, you did that. You’re still doing that. And he’s doing that for you. He came back from wherever the hell he was the minute he heard about Peggy and figured you needed him. I’m gonna tell you right now, I don’t think he likes me very much. But that’s okay, because the way he was watching your back last night, there ain’t nothing that’s gonna get past him. And that’s all I care about.”

 

“Did he threaten to kill you?” Steve asked, cutting Sam off.

 

“Umm, yeah.” Sam drawled out after a second’s hesitation.

 

“Then he likes you.”

 

“What the fuck? How do you figure that?”

 

“If he didn’t, he wouldn’t have warned you. He’d have just done it.”

 

“Oh jeez, that makes me feel a shit-ton better.” Steve couldn’t help but snort at Sam’s disgruntled grumble. “But lastly, about me and Natasha. We were worried Steve, and we didn’t know what was going on with you and him. We didn’t mean to give you shit about it. I’ll back off now that I know more than I did. And I’ll get Nat to back off too, as long as you promise to keep us in the loop and let us know if either of you need any help. Fair?”

 

“Yeah, that’s fair,” Steve said as he wiped the last of the tears from his face. “Thanks Sam.”

 

“Don’t mention it man.” Sam slapped his shoulder, rose from the table and reached for the coffee pot, pouring both himself and Steve a refill. Once he finished, he sat back down and leaned forward, making sure to catch Steve’s gaze with his own. “As for everything else, I hope the both of you can work that out as well. Because if there’s anybody who deserves that type of happiness, especially after all this time, it’s the two of you.”

 

“I don’t think he even remembers anything about it. I’m not going to put that type of pressure on him either. I just want him to become whoever he’s going to become, and hope that he lets me help him whenever he needs it.”

 

“He may never remember Steve. People like him, who have been in similar situations, and okay, there’s no situation exactly like his, but still, they don’t often remember everything in their past. But maybe whoever he ends up becoming will love you just as much, if not more than he used to. You can start something new, you know. And now, they can’t lock you up for it like they did in your day.”

 

“I’m still not going to put any pressure on him Sam.”

 

“I’m not saying you should,” Sam agreed. “Just be open to the possibility. That’s all.”

 

“Yeah well, I’ve still got to get through today, and then go home and talk to him about where he’s been these past two months.”

 

“Oh, that’s going to be fun for you,” Sam said. “From what little I’ve seen of him, I don’t think the guy is much of a talker.”

 

“Sam, he’s better at deflecting than I am with my shield.” Steve rolled his eyes.

 

“Good times in Brooklyn then, huh? Just make sure to send me the video. This I gotta see.” Sam paused and then looked at him. “You trust he’s really going to be there when you get back?”

 

“Yeah Sam, I do.”

 

“You sure? Because –“ Steve lifted his hand and Sam fell silent.

 

“Yeah Sam, I’m sure. Bucky promised me.” Steve rose from the table and picked up his bowl. “He doesn’t make promises very often, especially now. But when he does, he always keeps them.”

 

Steve was about to reach for the Cheerios; his had gone all soggy and now looked completely unappetizing, when there was a knock at Sam’s door.

 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Sam muttered under his breath.

 

“As much as he can be a pain in the ass, he’s never wrong about these things Sam.” Steve emptied his bowl in the sink, while Sam went to answer the door.

 

“Hey Nat. What a nice surprise,” he heard Sam call from the hallway. “What are you doing here?”

 

“I heard about Peggy,” Natasha was saying as she followed Sam into the kitchen. “Oh Steven, I am so so sorry. I just got back from Cairo when Tony told me. I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the funeral yesterday, but I wanted to get here as soon as I could.”

 

“Thank you, Natasha, that means a lot,” Steve said, as Natasha stepped forward and wrapped him in her arms. Over her shoulder, Steve looked at Sam, who had glanced at the clock and was shaking his head, mouthing the words ‘ _Sonovabitch._ ’

 

Natasha held him for a moment longer, her soft sweet scent enveloping him, before she loosened her hold and took a small step back, looking up into Steve’s face. As she did, she placed the palm of her hand gently over his heart, right where he had replaced the key after Bucky had taken the original one last night.  

 

“How are you doing Steven? Really?” Natasha asked, her eyes kind and sympathetic as she stared at him.

 

“I’m doing all right Natasha, really,” Steve told her as he laid his hand over her own on his chest. “Better than I thought I’d be honestly. But thank you, so much for coming. It really means a lot.”

 

_Goddammit Bucky._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, any and all comments are GREATLY appreciated.


	21. Chapter 21

Bucky did indeed keep his promise to Steve and was waiting for him when Steve finally made his way back to the row house, answering Steve’s knock within thirty seconds. Steve had decided to go back to his apartment first, to shower and change. The clothes he had been wearing for the past couple of days were clothes of mourning and grief. He needed to wash the tears and sadness from his skin before he prepared himself for this next encounter. He didn’t know if it was a battle, a dance or something else he would be facing when he stepped through that door, but he wanted to be as ready for it as possible when the two of them were finally alone.

 

“Hey Steve,” Bucky said quietly, as he ran his eyes over him, studying, assessing, checking for even the smallest sign that Steve was not alright. He always did it, always had, even when they were kids, and it seemed as if the habit was one that was permanently ingrained in his psyche.

 

“Hey Buck,” Steve said from where he stood, his hands in his pockets. “Can I come in?”

 

“Yeah, of course you can.” Bucky backed away from the door, and moved so that Steve could step into the foyer. With just those first few steps, Steve could already sense the changes in the house. It had been cleaned, the smell of lemon and pine a soft scent in the air that tickled his nose. Whatever dust had gathered was long gone, and Steve was certain he would find the same cleanliness in every room, on every floor. He was also certain that Bucky had probably triple-checked the house for any signs of changes, intrusions or bugs since he had been away. But even more than that, the house no longer felt as empty as it had just a few weeks ago. There was a presence within it now, and even the walls seemed to sigh their contentment at their caretaker being home.

 

As Steve followed Bucky into the kitchen, he also studied Bucky. He was thin again, too damned thin, looking to be about the same weight he’d been when Steve had first seen him in Oregon. His cheeks were gaunt and his clothes hung loose on his frame, the sharp point of his elbows visible from underneath his sleeves. His muscles were still long and lean, but any excess, what little Bucky possessed, had been whittled away. He was still powerful and could still be dangerous, but any reserves he had were gone. But his hair was clean, his skin clear and his eyes sharp and present, as he glanced at Steve from over his shoulder. That was good, that was more than good. The rest of it could be fixed, given enough time and care. If, and only if, Bucky planned on staying. And that was something Steve still didn’t know.

 

“Coffee?” Bucky asked once they had reached the kitchen.

 

“Coffee’s good.” Steve sat at the kitchen table, clear of all its previous detritus while Bucky reached for the pot that was already filled. They were both quiet while Bucky prepared a cup of coffee for him, but Steve could feel the way their skins were vibrating as their bodies tried to readjust to this familiar but new proximity.

 

“You moved out,” Bucky said as he placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of Steve, without taking one of his own. Okay, so they were going for direct. Or maybe it was a deflection, Bucky trying to steer the conversation so they wouldn’t have to discuss what happened back in June. But it wasn’t accusatory or mad, just a plain statement of fact, the sniper in Bucky assessing its surroundings to judge what was critical and what could be dismissed.

 

“Yeah Buck, I did.” Steve wrapped his left hand around the mug of coffee, lettings its warmth seep into his skin. “After you left like you did, and didn’t come back, didn’t text to let me know you were okay, there was no reason for me to stay here.” It was Steve’s turn to parry, and he wasn’t going to let Bucky avoid the issue.

 

“That’s ridiculous, Steve. This is your home.” Bucky blocked and turned. And oh, how Steve’s stomach gnawed in on itself. Landmines, landmines, landmines, so many fucking landmines and this was a big one. Because no matter what Steve said, or how many times he told him, Bucky refused to believe the row house was his home. It was his safe space, but it was as if Bucky only thought that to be true because Steve was lending it to him. Not because it was something that was his, something he had a right to, like his body, his mind, his very soul. Bucky believed it could be taken from him without a moment’s notice, and as a result there was a part of him that always had to be ready to give up what little he had, no matter how hard he clung to it. And when Natasha had done what she had done, with good intentions yes, but still…It had taken something else from Bucky, when there was so little that he claimed as his own.

 

“It’s not just my home Bucky. It’s your home, more than mine,” Steve countered. “It’s been your home ever since the day I found out you were still alive. _It will always be your home._ ”

 

“Hmmm,” Bucky hummed, tilting his head to the side, like he had that first day he invited Steve into the kitchen for coffee. But now the plates in his arm were silent and still, not shifting like they had that first time. Either Bucky wasn’t upset, yet, or his control had gotten even better. “And what do your friends have to say about that?”

 

“My friends don’t get to have a say about anything. This is between me and you Bucky, and they don’t get a say.”

 

“Hmmm,” he hummed again, his head still titled slightly. “We’ll see.”

 

“Don’t you want to come back home Buck?” Steve made sure to emphasize the word _home_ as he spoke. Bucky looked away from him then, drumming the fingers of his right hand on the table. The fingernails were ragged, as if Bucky had been chewing on them. That wasn’t a habit he’d had when they were kids, but it was something Steve had noticed, _(late, too late, always too late),_ during the war. He hadn’t been doing it since he had come back to Brooklyn, but it looked as if he had picked it up again. The plates in his arm were still silent, but Steve could see the tension in his shoulders and the way he was now refusing to meet Steve’s gaze.

 

“Of course I do,” he finally whispered. “I love it here.” Steve wanted to sigh in relief. But then Bucky shifted minutely, and Steve found himself once again staring into the face that he had met on the bridge of the helicarrier. “But I can’t stay here if they’re going to keep coming in like that and violating my privacy. I ain’t got much Steve, and I’m probably always going to be asking you for more, but a man has a right to his own space, four fucking walls where he can close his eyes, and go to sleep, and not have to worry about who’s watching him. I know it wasn’t your fault, but you gotta promise me that this place is safe. If you can’t, let me know, and we’ll work something else out. But I can’t stay here if there’re gonna be eyes on me all the time other than yours. It makes me itch, and I’m so damned tired of being fucking itchy in my own damned skin.”

 

The words were sharp and cutting, angry, but they were probably some of the most honest ones Bucky had ever spoken to him. Steve could hear the absolute truth in them, as well as the need, and the undertone, soft and pleading, in a way so unlike Bucky, calling to his Captain to keep him safe.

 

“I swear to you Bucky, I absolutely swear to you, you’re safe here. I gave both Sam and Natasha hell when I found out what they’d done. And I made them both promise me to never do that again.” Bucky had twitched ever-so-slightly at the mention of Natasha’s name, and Steve internally sighed. There was definitely something going on between those two, and all three of them were going to have to pull out the weeds before it could grow into something more. But that was another issue, for another day. Sam and Natasha had both given Steve their word, and Steve trusted them to keep it. Steve just hoped that Bucky still trusted him enough to believe in his judgement. “Sam’s probably going to want me to check in – Nothing invasive Bucky, he’s just worried, about the both of us, and he’s got some experience working with people who have the same kinds of problems we do.” Steve made sure to include the both of them as he spoke, to let Bucky know that he had heard his plea, and was not going to abandon him to deal with his issues alone. “But you don’t have to talk to him if you don’t want to, don’t even have to see him again. He’s just going to want me to check in and let him know how things are going.”

 

Bucky’s fingers kept up their relentless _tap-tap-tap_ over the tiles on the table, but otherwise he was perfectly still, his eyes lowered as he ran over Steve’s words in his head.

 

“It probably makes sense for you to have someone to talk to about all of this,” Bucky finally consented. “I know it ain’t easy for you to hafta deal with all of my shit all of the time. And Wilson seems alright. But nothing personal about me. That shit’s private.”

 

“Of course, Buck, I promise you. I would never tell him anything personal about you,” Steve swore. Bucky fingers finally stilled on the table and a second later he nodded his acceptance. “So that does that mean you’re back home now, for good this time?” Steve pressed.

 

“I can’t make you that promise Stevie, not just yet,” Bucky admitted. But at least it was Stevie again, and not Steve. “Things set me off, and it’s hard for me to trust.” And that was another surprising admission from Bucky, but at least it was honest.

 

“Even me?” Steve felt his eyebrow furrowing as he asked the question.

 

“Nah Stevie, I always trust you, even when I should know better.” There was a small smile on Bucky’s lips as he spoke. “But you got other responsibilities and people in your life. And I just gotta learn to accept that.”

 

“Bucky –“

 

“It’s okay Stevie, I get it, I do.” Bucky told him. “But yeah, for now, as long as you’ll have me, I’ll be here.” The words were softly spoken, and bittersweet in the air. But after ten weeks of not seeing this man, of worrying where he was and how he was doing, Steve would take any victory he could get. He had time now. Time, more resources, and a better understanding of what he was dealing with. And he was going to make sure that Bucky damn well knew, in his blood and his bones, that Steve would be there for him, his captain, his shield, his brother in blood, bone, and spirit, and most importantly his companion, until the end of the line.

 

“Can I at least get a promise that the next time this happens, you keep your fucking phone on you and give me a call?” Steve pressed.

 

“Yeah Stevie, okay, as long as I got a phone on me, I’ll answer if you call.” Bucky begrudgingly capitulated, as if Steve wouldn’t notice the way he had turned the words, a promise with a twist.

 

“Uh-huh,” Steve grunted as he finally lifted the mug of coffee to his lips. It was perfect, with just the right amount of cream and sugar, how Bucky always made it for him when Steve came down into the kitchen first thing in the morning. “Keep your fucking phone on you Bucky. And while we’re at it, give me your new number, cos I know you got one.”

 

“Hah!” Bucky cackled, as he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a new cell phone. It was sleeker than his older one, and probably more powerful. But it was still disposable, and definitely paid for by cash. He pushed a few buttons and Steve felt his own phone vibrating in his jeans. “There, happy now?”

 

“Thank you.” And then because he could, because it had been so long, he added, “Asshole.”

 

“Dumbass.” Bucky fell quiet, tracing the outline of one of the tiles on the table with his index finger. “And I am sorry Stevie, for leaving and hurting you like that. It was a shitty thing for me to do.”

 

“It’s okay Buck.”

 

“No, it’s not.” Bucky shook his head, but Steve noted that this time he didn’t hide behind his hair like he usually did when he was upset about something, instead looking up and meeting Steve’s gaze head on. “It was shitty, and not fair. But I’ll try to do better from now on.”

 

“Thank you,” Steve said, filled with gratefulness and relief. “That’s all I ask.” Bucky nodded again and went back to scratching at the tabletop.

 

“What about you?” he finally asked. “Are you going to come back home?”

 

And there went Steve’s heart, fluttering and flying, the way it only could when it was cradled in Bucky’s hands.

 

“If you want me to, Bucky.”

 

Bucky made a _pfft_ sound, that without any words at all still managed to say _dumbass_ and _punk_ and _Stevie._

 

“Then yeah Buck, I would love to come back home. There’s no place I’d rather be.” Steve took another sip of coffee, which now tasted even better than it had just a few moments ago. “But first, we gotta get some food in you. You’ve lost too much damned weight.”

 

“Ugh, I’m fine Stevie.” Bucky rolled his eyes at him. “I’ve been eating all right.”

 

“You’re skinny, Buck. You know better now.”

 

“I could still take you down.”

 

“Pfft.” It was Steve’s turn to snort at Bucky. “The only thing you could do right now is fit your ass in that damned Lay-Z-Boy.”

 

“At least you left the chair.”

 

“Yeah well, if I knew if there was anything you were going to come back for, it was that fucking chair.”

 

“You should have put some chuletas on it. I would have come back weeks ago.”

 

“Speaking of which, let’s go to grab some food at Casita Pepe. You can finally introduce me to Senora Rodriguez, while you stuff your face with those chuletas that you still won’t share with me.”

 

“No.”

 

“No?”

 

“No.”

 

They stared at each other, mock glaring, before Bucky broke first and snorted.

 

“Pork buns then?” Steve offered.

 

“Yeah, pork buns would be good.”

 

“Thank god.” Steve said, rising to put his mug in the sink. “I’ve been back there a couple of times, but that old man, he just glares at me whenever I walk in. I think he hates me.”

 

“That’s because Mr. Yuen’s not an idiot.” Bucky rose from the table, pocketing his phone. “And I may have told him you cast aspersions on his cow.”

 

“You asshole!...Wait? He has a cow?”

 

Bucky cackled again, slapping the back of Steve’s shoulder. But then he stopped, so they were face to face, and just stood there, staring at Steve.

 

“Just so you know,” he said quietly. “I was always going to come back. And not just for the chair.” Then he smiled at Steve, soft and small, like a kitten curled up in Steve’s palm. Steve smiled back.

 

And yeah, all right, it might end up taking them a while, but they were going to be okay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hands pork buns to everyone** =)


	22. Chapter 22

Within two days, Steve moved back into the house.

 

First, they stopped at the Half Moon Bakery, where Mr. Yuen waved and smiled widely at Bucky, before rolling his eyes at Steve as he mumbled an apology about his cow. The old man muttered a _“bái chī”_ before he turned to Bucky and said in Cantonese, “ _You really need to find some smarter friends._ ”

 

“ _Don’t I know it. But he’s useless on his own, Uncle, so I’m stuck,_ ” Bucky responded. Mr. Yuen cackled and patted his hand.

 

“ _Still, it is good to have friends. But don’t go away for so long next time. I worried. And you’re too skinny. Good thing I have some extra buns today, char sui, your favorite._ ” He then proceeded to put four additional buns in the bag, winking at Bucky and glaring at Steve.

 

“What the hell did you say to him?” Steve eyed him suspiciously as they left the small bakery, the bundle of warm buns cradled in Bucky’s right hand.

 

“Nothing,” Bucky said, opening the bag and taking a deep inhale of the savory scents of pork belly and spice that drifted upwards. And yeah, okay, he had missed this.

 

“Right.”

 

“I swear, he was just telling me about what’s been going on with his family.”

 

“Uh-huh,” Steve grunted. “He doesn’t even have a cow, does he? Now shut up and eat your damned lunch.” As Bucky had already shoved half a bun into his mouth, he couldn’t argue.

 

Bucky continued to devour his way through the food as they made their way back to the row house, Steve taking only one of the buns, no matter how many times Bucky tried to offer him more. “I’m serious Buck. You’re too skinny. Eat those, and tomorrow we’ll go get some more.” He then set himself up at the kitchen table, proceeding to call for a rental truck and making the arrangements so he could move back in.

 

It took only two days, and then Steve was back, and the both of them were living together just like they had been at the start of the summer. Except that first exchange between them over pork buns was probably the easiest one they shared for at least the first few weeks.

 

Because Bucky just couldn’t settle.

 

He knew it would be hard, knew it wouldn’t be easy. But someone had been in the house, the one thing he had just started to believe might be his, a single place in the world where he always felt safe. Yet now that its sanctity had been violated, Bucky’s skin would just not stop itching. He had a difficult time sleeping, waking up several times during the night with an undeniable need to check the locks on the doors and the windows on every floor. Unless they were working on a project, he found he couldn’t sit still either. Always moving, always alert, knowing it was going to come, that something was going to come, and he’d have to be ready for it. It wasn’t Steve’s fault, he knew that, _he knew it_ , but it still made him want to snap and snarl and hide in a corner surrounded by every knife he owned. He didn’t want to hurt Steve, knew he had hurt him too much already, so instead he withdrew and was quiet when they were working, jittery and nervous when they weren’t.

 

Steve noticed, of course he did. He was probably as paranoid now as Bucky was, if about different things. So he was always watching, always trying to assess Bucky’s mental state. However, where before Steve’s gaze always felt like a comfort and the kindness of familiarity, now it felt intrusive and inescapable. He watched, and Bucky itched, and their evenings ended up with Bucky retreating to his room, sometimes relentlessly pacing for hours.

 

But Steve was kind about it, and patient. He showed Bucky the improved lock plate he installed after Bucky had destroyed the last one, even better and harder to pick, (it took Bucky only three minutes, but he supposed that was something). And the new locks on the windows, which required a key that could only be used from the inside of the house. (Those took Bucky ninety seconds to unlock, but still, better than the ones from before.) He even went so far as to offer to have all the windows and doors replaced, upgrading to a security system that would not only use a key, but also a fingerprint or retinal scan if that would make Bucky feel safer. Bucky rolled his eyes at him for that. He still had no tangible identity he could use, and he knew HYDRA had every single one of his details on file. He would not risk putting any of his data in any system, no matter how private Steve claimed it would be. There was no system in the world that was completely secure. HYDRA had proved that point very well with SHIELD, and Bucky knew there were twelve-year-old girls with enough curiosity, intelligence and determination who could work even faster than HYDRA at hacking into computer systems. So putting any of his information out there, no matter how innocuous it seemed at first, was a definite no.

 

“What would make it better, Buck?” Steve asked as he sat on the stairs at the end of the second floor, watching while Bucky prowled back and forth in the hallway.

 

“Dunno,” Bucky said, which was a lie. There was something that would help, that would ease the knot in his stomach, the itching of his skin, and the constant tingling at the back of his neck. But it was the one thing Steve had strictly forbidden him to do, and that was run. Running helped ease his mind, steady his body and tire out his muscles, while giving him a better layout and feel for the neighborhood. He could patrol and reconfirm the security of Sunset Park, forever now more tenuous than it had previously been, yet at least it was something. But Steve had been worried about the amount of weight Bucky had lost, and absolutely refused to budge on the matter.

 

“Ten pounds Buck,” Steve said when Bucky tried to press the issue. “You gain back at least ten pounds, and then we’ll head out. But you’re too damned skinny.” Both Steve’s eyes and his voice had been filled with nothing but concern and worry, and with everything Bucky knew he already put him through, he had enough guilt and didn’t want to cause Steve any more pain. So, he conceded.

 

It wasn’t that Bucky hadn’t been eating either. Remembering everything Steve had told him, that he had learned and experienced for himself, he’d eaten as best he could. Quarter pounders and large orders of fries, buckets of fried chicken with mashed potatoes and biscuits on the side, egg sandwiches and milkshakes and anything else he could get his hands on. Mostly fast food, all high caloric.  But it was difficult when you were constantly running, worried who had you in their crosshairs, to stop, sit, and eat like he had been for the past couple of months. He had been nervous and jittery, and three solid square meals a day had just not been feasible. But he had eaten, and tried his best, and he still lost the weight.

 

He understood Steve’s concern, but he also knew from experience that he could run himself much harder, for much longer, on even less. He had pondered on this when he finally stopped for a brief rest, somewhere in the Appalachian Mountains in Virginia, wondering why HYDRA  always denied him food, leaving him hungry, when he functioned so much better and was even stronger if he had more reserves to pull from. It didn’t make sense, but there was nothing about HYDRA that made sense, except for their indomitable hunger to control the world. And if he was too strong, then perhaps they would not have been able to control him. So they kept even their deadliest and most valuable weapon vulnerable in order to maintain their dominance.

 

Steve’s point of view was completely the opposite of HYDRA’s. Bucky had fleeting seconds of worry if that was why Steve was so focused on him eating, because he wanted Bucky at peak performance. He always discarded that thought within the next instant, feeling guilty for even considering such a thing about Stevie. It was a dying echo of the Asset, wondering as to the motivations of this man. And he knew Steve was right. He was thinner than he had been in a while, but he was eating again, and that didn’t mean he was not strong enough to go for a run.

 

But Steve wasn’t an idiot, he never had been. He spent the next two weeks after he moved back _inside_ the house, as if he knew that as soon as he left, Bucky would take to the streets. He didn’t go to any of his normal daily visits to the Avengers Tower, nor did he perform any of his own workouts while he tried (and he was trying) to help Bucky resettle. When Bucky asked him about it, Steve had ducked his head (a tell from when he had been a kid), and rubbed the back of his neck.

 

“They’re giving me time, Buck…Because of Peggy,” he mumbled. “As much time as I need.”

 

“Oh,” Bucky said, feeling guilty yet again, because here Steve was, trying to deal with all of Bucky’s shit when he still had plenty of his own heartbreak to work through. So Bucky did what he had always done, and turned all of his attention toward Steve, making sure that he also got all of the attention and care he needed, to help him recover from what Bucky knew was a devastating loss.

 

Because Steve had loved Peggy, had always loved her with all his heart. Bucky had a memory from the war, of the two of them standing outside their base canteen, Steve smiling as he watched Peggy talk to Colonel Philips, while Bucky smoked a cigarette and watched Steve. Steve had caught him looking, and with the brightest smile Bucky had ever seen and a tilt of his head, said, “Once all of this shit’s over, I’m going to marry that girl.” That memory and all the other ones Bucky had of Steve and Peggy, while by no means complete, always came with an ache, deep and throbbing and lonely in his chest. He didn’t understand it, did not know what other things he still hadn’t remembered (and he knew there were plenty), but the ache had always been there, was still there even now whenever he looked at Stevie. Maybe it was sympathy pains, because they had always shared a kinship with one another that no one else could understand, and it was nothing more than the bleeding of Steve’s loss into Bucky’s own heart. Or maybe it was something else. But whatever it was, Steve was in pain, and it had always been Bucky’s job to protect him and keep him safe, even from himself if need be.

 

Because the Avengers, the Widow and Wilson, and all of these other people that Steve called his friends, _were not doing their fucking jobs._

 

Steve was not the only one who knew how to set up search parameters and algorithms to keep an eye on what was going on in the world, or to track someone else’s movements. When Bucky had gotten the alert about Margaret Carter’s death on his phone, he had known. Steve was going to be devastated. He was going to be shattered and despondent and unless someone was there for him, he was going to act as if nothing was wrong, as if his heart wasn’t bigger than the world’s, and just as vulnerable.

 

And Bucky had been right. Because as soon as he made his way from back from Ottawa to Arlington, and laid eyes on Steve, standing proud and stoic in the cemetery, Bucky could hear it; the howling of Steve’s heart, desperate and in pain, bleeding as it cried and cried and cried out in its anguish. And Wilson, _Wilson_ had been standing right there by Steve’s shoulder, and he hadn’t heard a thing. Bucky had heard it from Canada, felt the vibrations of it in his bones, and come running. But Wilson hadn’t even noticed. And it was so obvious, so clear, the way Steve had sagged against him as soon as Bucky wrapped him in his arms by Peggy’s grave, that these people, this man that Steve claimed was one of his closest friends, were all fucking useless. Steve was their Captain, one of their leaders, and yeah, he was strong and fearless and unstoppable. But only because of his heart, which was and had always been the best thing about him. Strong, the strongest of all hearts, but because of that it needed even more care, more gentleness, and a safe place from which it could beat.

 

And it had been howling.

 

Steve was still aching and mourning Peggy’s loss. And if there was nothing else he could do, Bucky could give Steve that.

 

Three times during those first two weeks, Bucky heard Steve’s soft whimpers through the wall in the middle of the night. Pushing everything else aside, all of his own unrest and twitchiness and inability to settle, he padded into Steve’s bedroom, crawled into bed with him, and let Steve cry. One night, he had leaned back against the headboard, Steve’s head in his lap as he ran the fingers of his right hand through Steve’s hair. Steve had recounted story after story about Peggy, crying, crying, crying all through the night. It had taken hours for him to finally settle, and when he eventually slipped into sleep, Bucky sat with him until the dawn began to creep through the windows, and Bucky left him to make them both some breakfast. Steve had come down not too long after, his eyes still red, but looking better than he had. There was still something troubled in his expression, as Bucky made him his usual cup of coffee and then set a plate full of pancakes and bacon in front of him, but when Bucky asked if he was all right, he merely shook his head, said thanks, and gave Bucky one last worried glance before he started to eat his food.

 

But Bucky still couldn’t settle, and he still couldn’t sleep, and his skin still itched. Steve continued to watch him, until he couldn’t even take that anymore and would go upstairs into his room, where he either cleaned his guns ( _again_ ) or paced some more. Something in Steve seemed to have shifted after that last time when Bucky had sat with him, and there were no more tears in the night. There was something new in his eyes when he looked at Bucky now, less sorrow, more worry, and he knew Steve was trying to figure out a new way to come at the situation. At this point, Bucky couldn’t have given less of a fuck. Let Steve plot and plan, and try to figure out his options. At least he had those. He had his friends, Wilson and the Widow. He spoke to Wilson almost every day for a few minutes, never hiding when he was having a conversation from Bucky. He had his other apartment, and the Avengers Tower and places he could go. Bucky was the one who was stuck. He couldn’t leave, he had promised Steve that, at least for a while. After everything he had done, all the damage he had caused, the way he had hurt Stevie, he was not willing to do that again, although he thought it might be coming. He could feel the nightmares getting ready to come back, preparing to tear at him in the night so all he would be able to do was scream and flee.

 

And then there was the Widow. Because no matter what she may have said or promised to Steve, Bucky _knew_ she was going to come back. It was what the Widow did. So all he could do was sit, and itch, and clean his guns and sharpen his knives, and _pacepacepace_ while he waited for all of it, every single tiny thing he had, to be taken away from him once again.

 

“I don’t know Sam,” he heard Steve say as he walked into the kitchen for a bottle of water. “He doesn’t seem to be able to settle down.” Steve turned to face him, and he spoke honestly and without shame. Bucky knew this was an attempt from Steve, his way of giving Bucky a gift, and proving that he wasn’t trying to hide anything from Bucky, or keep secrets. At this point, fifteen days in, Bucky was too wrung out to care anymore. He head was aching, and his shoulders were tight, so tight that the left one was bothering more than it had in months. Steve seemed okay, didn’t appear to be upset about Peggy, and his heart was no longer howling. That was all Bucky needed to know before he decided the kitchen was suddenly too crowded, and headed to the third floor, so he could pace the hallway some more.

 

 _Settle down?_ he thought as he made his way up the stairs. _Pal, you have no idea._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **points to the Bucky Barnes needs a hug tag**
> 
> And as always, to everyone who has taken the time to leave a comment, you have no idea how much they brighten my day and make me smile. **hugshugssomanyhugs** to all of you. <3


	23. Chapter 23

“I don’t know Sam,” Steve said, as he watched Bucky turn around and walk right back out of the kitchen. Steve knew he was going to go upstairs and start his usual round of pacing, which he could do for hours. “He doesn’t seem to be able to settle down.” Steve was checking in, as promised, and after a few minutes of their normal back and forth to see how the other was doing, Sam had asked about Bucky.

 

“At all?” Steve was surprised at how honestly concerned Sam seemed, such a contrast to how it had been two months ago.

 

“Not really, no. He’s been twitchy before, and he could always be a bit moody. And I have no idea what he was like when he first moved into the house, but this…I’ve never seen him like this.” Steve reached for the dish towel hanging on the stove door to dry the glass he had just been drinking from.

 

“Like how?”

 

“He’s barely sleeping, and he’s nervous, even more than he usually is. Jumps at every damned sound, and says his skin itches. And he paces, all the damn time, can’t sit still really.”

 

“How’s he been with you? Any issues?”

 

“Yes, and no.”

 

“Yes and no?”

 

“He’s not the same. He’s not as talkative as he was, and he’s pretty quiet. Not giving me any shit like he used to. Except when it comes to Peggy. Then, it’s like…”

 

“It’s like?” Sam pressed when Steve didn’t go on.

 

“Then it’s like he turns everything else off and just focuses on me. He’s suddenly there, and he lets me talk about her, and he’s been so damned attentive and concerned, not letting me stew or wallow by myself.” Hands in his hair at night, arms holding him tightly, Bucky cradling Steve’s heart so it could break before the pieces would mend, a shoulder warm and steady, for him to cry on. So goddamned Bucky, the way Bucky had always been. But now that Bucky was obviously struggling, in need, and desperate for something, he just kept turning away from Steve, when all Steve wanted to do was offer the same in return. Offer even a fraction of what Bucky had always given to Steve all their lives. “But once he knows I’m okay, he goes back to being twitchy and not sleeping, and prowling the house all night.”

 

“Jesus, that boy of yours.”

 

“I’m worried Sam. He’s not talking to me, and he’s obviously wound up too tightly. I’m afraid he’s going to snap and take off again. And he’s too good for me to follow him. Even with JARVIS helping, it took us over six and a half months to get our first clue last year. And now that he knows about JARVIS? This time we found absolutely nothing.”

 

“Do you think he’s dangerous?”

 

“No,” Steve said as he put the glass back in the cabinet. “If anything, I think he’s just going to run.” He sighed and clenched the towel in his hand. “I don’t think he feels safe here anymore, and nothing I say will convince him that he is.”  

 

“How’s he been eating?” Was the next question from Sam, surprising Steve, when he thought Sam would have continued in the previous vein.

 

“He’s eating, he doesn’t seem to have a problem with that, except…” Steve paused, because he had noticed this, had been noticing everything about Bucky’s behavior since he’d come back, and it was worrying.

 

“Except?”

 

“Except I don’t think he’s really enjoying the food like he used to. And Sam, if there’s one thing he’s loved since he’s come back, it’s food. But now, it’s more like he’s eating to pack away the calories, because he knows he has to, and not because he’s enjoying it.”

 

“Has he put on any weight since he’s been back?”

 

“No, which I don’t get. Like I said, he’s been eating, and keeping it down – and yes Sam, I’ve been listening – but the weight’s not coming back like it was before. And he wants to run.”

 

“Run?”

 

“Yeah, he likes to go out running. Before he left, we were doing it basically every day. But it’s pretty hardcore, not like the way we do it when I’m visiting you.”

 

“Yeah, well, thanks for that. Let me put on my wings the next time you’re down here and see how well you do,” Sam grumbled. “On your left. Ha. On your head motherfucker.” The words had the expected reaction, and Steve laughed.

 

“You know what I mean.” Steve loosened his grip on the dish towel and hung it back up on the stove door.

 

“Yeah I do.” In the background Steve could hear music, Sam listening to his all-time favorite, Marvin Gaye. “So why isn’t he running then?”

 

“Are you kidding me? You’ve seen him Sam. He’s too fucking skinny. I made him promise me he wouldn’t do it until he put on at least ten pounds.”

 

“Steve,” Sam said, his voice chiding.

 

“What?”

 

“Let him run.”

 

“Are you kidding me?”

 

“No Steve, I’m not,” Sam told him. “If he wants to run, then let him. It’s obviously something he needs to do to feel safe, and from everything you’ve just told me, it sounds like that’s his biggest problem right now.”

 

“Sam –“

 

“No Steve, I’m serious. A problem that a lot of vets recovering from PTSD,” Steve cringed at Sam’s words, even though he knew they were true, “have is feeling safe. When they do find something that works, as long as it’s not hurting anyone else, you’ve got to let them do it.”

 

“He’s too skinny Sam. We both burn through calories too quickly for him to go running for hours at a time.”

 

“Cap,” Sam said, his firm voice sounding like it was losing patience. “From everything you’ve just described, it sounds like Bucky’s in a constant state of fight or flight. That means his entire body’s keyed up, from his heart rate to his metabolism. He’s not sleeping and he’s not eating enough, and that’s not a healthy state for anybody to be in.  If you let him release that, everything in him will start to calm. He’ll sleep better and his body’s systems will slow down. He’s also probably chasing the endorphin high, which from what you’ve told me about the both of you, is one of the only highs you guys can still get. Let him have that. It’ll calm him down and make him feel better. Once he starts to feel better, he’ll relax, then you’ll relax and that will benefit the both of you.”

 

“I dunno, Sam.” Steve supposed it made sense from a biological perspective, but that didn’t mean he was willing to accept it. “I don’t think he’s ready for that just yet.”

 

“Steve,” Sam said again. “I hate to tell you this, because I know he’s your boy, and you’re worried. But I’ve met him, and despite everything, he seems to have a pretty good sense of himself. Yeah, he was skinny when he was here, but he was together and focused. It’s obvious he knows what he has to do to take care of himself even when you’re not around, and if this is something he’s telling you he needs to do, then let him. He knows himself better than you do, and you were the one who said that you wanted to make sure he was always going to be able to make his own choices. So, let him make this one. It’s not a bad choice Steve. It might not be one you agree with, but it’s better than him running off and disappearing on you again because he feels like the walls are closing in on him.”

 

“You haven’t seen him run Sam,” Steve tried one last counter. “He can even outrun me on a good day.”

 

“Ha!” Sam cackled. “I would pay to see that.”

 

“You wouldn’t be able to see anything, just our dust as we left your ass behind.”

 

“It’d still be worth it,” Sam said, before his voice turned serious once more. “Look Steve, he’s an adult, and he needs to be able to make his own choices, and _you need to let him._ If you’re still worried, then offer him a compromise. Tell him only every other day, or for half as long, or only if you guys go for a meal right afterwards. I saw the two of you together, you guys know how to come to an agreement.”

 

“You don’t know Bucky.” It was Steve’s turn to grumble.

 

“No, I don’t,” Sam agreed. “But I have seen what it’s like for soldiers trying to recover. And what he needs is your support, more than your worry. And yeah, you’re going to worry and you have every right to. But I’ve also seen how he was around you, and I bet you he’s been picking up on that and it’s probably not helping him either, cos his instincts seem to be geared to protecting you.”

 

“You have no idea.” Steve sat at the table and started to run his fingertips over his forehead.

 

“So, work with that. Let him know that you’re okay with him just the way he is, and that you’re there to support him, not as his captain from the war, but as his friend. Let him know that you’ve got his back, but don’t smother or try to control him. He’s had enough of that already. Just let him do what he needs to do, and tell him that you’ll still support him no matter what happens.”

 

“Of course I will Sam!”

 

“I know, and he probably does too. He’s just having trouble remembering that right now with everything going on in his head.”

 

“Yeah, okay. You’re probably right.” Steve looked down and noticed he was tracing the tile on the kitchen table, the very same one Bucky had run his fingers over two weeks ago when they had sat here together for the first time in months.

 

“Of course I am, I’m always right about these things.”

 

“Pfft, and you’re so humble too.” But Steve paused, both in his words and the movement of his fingers, taking a deep breath before he went on. “Any other advice?”

 

Sam was quiet for a moment before he responded. “His safe space’s been violated. And I can’t tell you how sorry I am that I was a part of that. That was partly my fault, and yeah, I should have known better. But I was thinking of him as a thing, the Winter Soldier, and not a person. We were worried, but you were right, we shouldn’t have done what we did.”

 

“Thanks for that Sam.” Steve was grateful, so grateful for the words, when he knew, no matter what Sam said, that there were things about Bucky that scared the shit out of him. There were things about Bucky that still scared the shit out of Steve, but Bucky had always been such a tremendous presence in his life, and he knew that the things that frightened Sam were very different from the ones that frightened him. “It means a lot.”

 

“It’s true,” Sam admitted. “As for the rest, you need to work on making him feel safe. Reminding him why he’s there and why he came back. It can’t be all about you. Let him know that your house is not just his shelter, but his home. So, the next time something happens, instead of fleeing in the night, he decides to stay where he is and protect what’s his. You get him to accept that and he’ll be less likely to leave the next time. In fact, if you do get him to do that, I doubt there’ll be any place in the world, even Avengers Tower in full lock down mode, that’ll be as safe as that house with the two of you in it.”

 

“Ha!” It was Steve’s turn to cackle. But his mind was already busy, going over everything Sam had said, what he knew about Bucky, and weighing his options. “Thanks man.”

 

“Don’t mention it,” Sam told him. “You good now?”

 

“Yeah, I’m good.”

 

“All right then. Call me if you need anything, and remember to keep me in the loop. Let me know how it goes.”

 

“Will do.”

 

“Night Cap.”

 

“Night Sam.” Steve disconnected the call and then looked down at his phone. Sam was right. This was not working. It was time to change tactics.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's going to get better. I promise.
> 
> As always hugs, churros and pork buns to everyone who has taken the time to leave me a comment. I snuggle them all. =)


	24. Chapter 24

The following evening, as Steve was handing their washed dinner dishes to Bucky to put away, he glanced at him surreptitiously. His eyes were bloodshot with dark circles beneath them, which meant he hadn’t slept well the night before. His fingertips were red from where he had been chewing on his own nails, and he was practically vibrating in his skin. Sam was right; enough was enough. It was time to let Bucky do whatever he needed to do to regain his equilibrium, and for Steve to stop letting his own worry get in the way of that. So once the last dish had been washed, and placed back in its cabinet, Steve tossed the towel he had been using to the table and turned to Bucky.

 

“Want to go for a run Buck? Would that help?” he asked. The relief in Bucky was immediate; he shivered and his shoulders actually lowered an inch.

 

“Yes,” he exhaled.

 

“All right. Go upstairs and change. I’ll meet you back down here in five minutes.” Steve watched as Bucky turned and bolted up the stairs.

 

Bucky was back downstairs in less than three, wearing a hoodie and a pair of track pants, bouncing on his toes as he waited for Steve at the doorway.

 

“So, here’s the deal,” Steve said as he made a quick detour into the kitchen to grab two bottles of Gatorade. “You lead, I’ll follow. We’ll run for as long as you want. The only thing I ask is that at the end, we stop and grab something to eat. Agreed?”

 

“Agreed.” Bucky caught the bottle midair as Steve tossed it to him.

 

“All right then, let’s go.”

 

As soon as they hit the sidewalk, Bucky took off, not even bothering to warm up. He tore down the streets, his legs and arms pumping, running so fast that Steve needed to push himself extra hard to keep up. He ran and ran and ran, as if his ass was on fire, cutting across streets, around corners and along the avenues like a cheetah that had just been set free. Steve could tell he was aware of his surroundings, although just barely, the actual run itself what he was primarily focused on. He kept up that brutal pace for at least two hours, and Steve was starting to worry if he was going to run until he collapsed and Steve would have to carry him back home, wondering if he could with the way his own legs were burning, until Bucky finally slowed to their more normal speed. He kept that up for another half an hour, before even he seemed to have had enough, and then just jogged for fifteen minutes more, eventually stopping to lean against a nearby building, gasping for breath and wiping the sweat from his brow with the back of his sleeve.

 

“Jesus Christ Bucky,” Steve wheezed by his side, suddenly having a lot more sympathy for Sam. Because _holy shit_ , that had been rough.

 

Next to him, Bucky merely grunted, already drinking from his bottle. Steve did the same, trying to balance swallowing with steadying his own heartbeat. But when he finally caught his breath and looked up, he saw Bucky had upheld his end of the bargain. Because directly across the street was a diner, the Silver Diner, the sign in its window brightly proclaiming that it was open twenty-four hours.

 

“Oh, thank god,” Steve gasped as he followed Bucky across the street on wobbling legs. “I could so murder a cheeseburger right now.” Bucky grunted again before he climbed the steps and held the door open for Steve.

 

Once inside, Steve could immediately see the difference in him as they were seated and their waitress approached.

 

“Hey sweetie,” she said, smiling brightly at Bucky. “It’s been a while. How have you been?”

 

“I’m good Carla, how are you? Did Melissa have the baby yet?” Bucky asked, returning Carla’s grin with one of his own, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Steve hadn’t seen that expression on his face in far too long, and he cursed himself for being so stupid.

 

“She did, a few weeks back. Healthy baby boy, Timothy Daniel Spencer. I am now officially a grandma,” Carla beamed.

 

“You would never know it from looking at you.” Bucky winked at her. “Mom and baby both doing well?”

 

“Both doing really well,” Carla said as she lifted her order pad. “Now, what can I get for you honey? Do you know what you want or do you need a menu?” Steve watched as Bucky placed an order for two bacon double cheeseburger deluxes, an additional order of cheese fries with gravy, a side of onion rings, and a strawberry milkshake to be followed by a slice of cherry pie. Carla didn’t even bat an eyelash at the size of Bucky’s order, before she turned to Steve with a raised eyebrow. “How about you? Do you know what you want or would like a menu?”

 

“Same,” Steve said with a wave of his hand. Carla just nodded, jotted something else on her pad, smiled at Bucky again and then headed back to the kitchen.

 

Once the food had been delivered, remarkably quick given the size of their order, and their table strewn with plates, including a bowl of mozzarella sticks that Darla slid in front of Bucky with a wink of her own, Bucky surprised him yet again. Because he devoured the food, attacking it as if he had just returned from forty days in the desert. Steve had told Sam the truth; Bucky had been eating and he’d been eating well since he’d come back to the house. But it seemed more functional than an act of enjoyment. The way Bucky was eating his meal now, Steve could see that he was taking great pleasure in what was in front of him, licking his lips and swirling an onion ring in a pile of ketchup like a child dipping their fingers in paint. He didn’t speak throughout the course of their meal, he was so focused on his food. But for the first time, his attention was entirely on the food, and he didn’t twitch or jerk once, not even when from somewhere in the kitchen came the sound of a plate shattering. It was a huge difference from just a few hours ago, and Steve wanted to curse himself for the part he had played in Bucky’s discomfort. When they were done and both of their plates practically licked clean, Bucky leaned back in his seat and sighed, gifting Steve with a small smile for the first time in far too long.

                                                                                                                                   

He was still quiet as they walked home, not saying much, but he did give Steve another of those tiny little grins before he turned and made his way into his own bedroom.

 

The next morning, when Bucky came into the kitchen for breakfast, his features were still pinched and his shoulders tight, but nowhere near as badly as they had been the day before. Steve wondered if he managed to actually get any sleep, but he was pretty certain Bucky had not spent the rest of the night prowling the halls like he had been. That was a definite improvement, as was the way Bucky nodded and made a small hum of contentment as he sat down and commenced devouring the plate of scrambled eggs Steve placed in front of him.

 

“Bucky,” Steve began, fifteen minutes later as Bucky was making his way through a third serving of eggs and a huge pile of bacon.

 

“Yeah?” Bucky asked, not even bothering to look up from his food.

 

“I wanted to apologize.”

 

“For what?” Bucky did lift his head this time, meeting Steve’s gaze directly.

 

“For being an overbearing jerk.”

 

Bucky snorted. “You’ve always been an overbearing jerk. I’m used to it by now.”

 

“I’m being serious Buck,” Steve said. Bucky put his bacon down and leaned back in his chair, turning all of his attention to Steve. And there he was, fully fused and present, every part of him focused on Steve. “I didn’t know about the running, and how much you needed it. I was more worried about your weight instead of paying attention to what you were trying to tell me. I wanted to help and instead I ended up hurting you.”

 

“It’s all right.” His voice was a bit flat, more Winter Soldier than Bucky, but Steve thought it was probably because Bucky was still a bit unsure about the situation, and had brought the protector to the forefront, so that he could ascertain the terrain.

 

“No, it’s not.” Steve was shaking his head. “And I am _very_ sorry about that. You know I would never want to do anything that would deliberately hurt you. Or at least I hope you do by now.”

 

“You’ve been worried about my weight. It’s reasonable.”

 

“Yeah, I have, but no, it’s not,” Steve countered. “But here’s the thing Buck, I can’t read your mind. You were always better at that than I was.” Bucky snorted at this, but he was still listening. “So, if you need something, or if there’s something you gotta do that helps you, makes you feel more secure, you have to tell me. I may argue or ask for a compromise if I think it’s not safe, but I won’t stop you. Worried or not, I ain’t got that right. And I don’t want you to think that I would ever try to take any of your choices away from you, _ever,_ but especially if it’s something that you need.”

 

Bucky continued to stare at him, his head tilted and his eyes slightly narrowed. But there was no malice or even any anger in it really. Just Bucky studying him, and finding his own truths from Steve’s words, until he eventually nodded.

 

“Thanks Stevie, that means a lot,” he finally said.

 

“You’re welcome,” Steve said. “And I am sorry.”

 

“Apology accepted.” And for Bucky, it was as simple as that. Steve had apologized, and Bucky forgave him, just like he always did. That was all he would ever need, at least from Steve, to let things go and for them to go back to normal. “We both still got a lot of learning to do, I guess.” And then he shrugged and went back to eating his bacon.

 

“Yep,” Steve agreed, rising to grab the coffee pot so that he could refill both of their mugs. Once he sat down, and started in on his own plate of bacon, he looked at Bucky and asked, “So does that mean we’re going for another run tonight?”

 

In Bucky’s responding snort, Steve could clearly hear the word _dumbass._

 

***

 

They did go for another run that night. Bucky once again took the lead, and Steve briefly wondered if he would ever let Steve pick their course and pace again, before he decided that it didn’t matter. But tonight, instead of the all-out sprint of the previous evening, which had been a burning off of excess energy and tension, Bucky chose a more reasonable pace and a less random route. It was still brutal, and they ran for just as long as they had yesterday, but it quickly became obvious to Steve that Bucky’s goal was different with this run. This time, he was patrolling, more aware of the environment around him as they ran down alleyways and side streets. Bucky’s pace never altered but he did scan each area they entered, glancing up and taking specific note of what Steve quickly realized were sightlines. Twice he had returned to an area they had already run through, but everything seemed to meet his approval as he never stopped.

 

They ran for two hours that night. Steve was concerned, but he didn’t say anything, finally able to accept this was something Bucky needed to do. His role at this point was support and making sure Bucky understood that. And he did enjoy the run and the challenge it gave his body.

 

Bucky was quiet that night as they ran, and he remained so even as he led them to a small bodega advertising Cuban sandwiches, and macaroni and cheese of all things. Bucky ordered three sandwiches for himself, as well as two containers of the mac and cheese, which Steve soon discovered was rich and creamy, with a smoky flavor from the bits of bacon they had used as a crust. Bucky devoured his food with the same intensity he had the night before, not saying anything to Steve as they made their way home. Steve quickly discovered why as soon as he locked the door, when Bucky turned to him, made a ‘ _nmmph_ ’ sound and then stumbled up the stairs to his room, without even bothering to check the windows.

 

Steve did not see him again for another twelve hours.

 

When he finally made his way into the kitchen, a little after eleven the next morning, yawning and scratching at his scalp, his steps were a little wobbly, but his eyes no longer bloodshot. And even though it was obvious he had showered and washed his hair, there were still the imprints from his pillow on his cheek.

 

“Good night?” Steve asked with an arched eyebrow.

 

“Coffee,” came the raspy response, as Bucky reached out and made a grabbing gesture with his hands, followed by a, “I slept like a baby.”

 

“Good.” Steve couldn’t help his smile as he fixed the both of them a cup of coffee.

 

It seemed Sam was right. By allowing Bucky to run and burn off whatever nervous energy had been building up inside of him, something in him seemed to settle. Even though he still checked the doors and windows several times a day, he had stopped his constant pacing. Steve knew he was sleeping better at night, and there hadn’t been a nightmare for a few weeks. Those would probably come back, but for now it seemed as if all of Bucky’s attention, both internal and external, was turned toward rebuilding his reserves. He was calm enough to just breathe again, and that improved his overall mood, so that his body was no longer trapped in its flight or fight response. He started to quickly regain the weight he had lost, in spite of all of the running they were doing, as he began to pay attention to what he was eating, enjoying it more than he had. Food was one of his greatest sources of pleasure, and to see him embrace that brought a smile to Steve’s face, especially when he came into the kitchen one afternoon to find Bucky already going through their weekly food delivery.

 

Bucky was digging through the carrier with an intense deliberation, and there was a small furrow between his eyebrows.

 

“Whatcha looking for, Buck? Did they forget something?” Steve asked.

 

“There’s no plums,” Bucky said as he searched through all of the carefully packed produce.

 

“I think they’re out of season now,” Steve told him, and then had to smother a laugh at the small noise Bucky made, a mix between a huff and a tiny grunt of displeasure, that reminded Steve of an angry kitten. It was one of the cutest things he had ever heard and Steve knew better than to say anything, especially if he wanted to keep all his teeth intact. So instead, he picked up the order sheet to see what kinds of fruit would be available in October. Bucky always had a sweet tooth, as far back as Steve could remember, and he tended to reach for cookies or brownies when he was in the mood for a snack. But since this new part of their lives, he also seemed to have developed a great fondness for fruit, which hadn’t been as easy to come by back when they were kids, or Steve was certain, when he had been enslaved by HYDRA. So Steve often found Bucky munching on an apple, nibbling on strawberries, or snacking on a banana when he entered a room where Bucky already was. And the plums, those had definitely been a favorite. As Steve studied the order form, he saw that nectarines were still an option, as were blackberries and grapes. He made sure to include those items in their next order, as well as requesting two jars of plum preserves.

 

The sound Bucky made when that delivery arrived, a _pleased_ little kitten this time, was just as adorable as the first one had been.

 

It was a complete reversal from just two weeks ago. They weren’t quite where they had been before June, but it was slowly starting to get there. Bucky was still a bit twitchy and nervous, and he still needed to check every window and lock at least three times a day. But it was a big difference from before. Bucky started to joke and give him shit again, as well as regained his sly outlook on the world. They started training together, three times a week, even though Steve knew Bucky was somehow finding time to train on his own. Steve was curious, of course he was, because he knew whatever Bucky was working on, it was probably moves and styles he had not so far shared with Steve. But remembering Sam’s words, Steve didn’t press and gave Bucky his space. Bucky seemed to appreciate that, and returned the favor when on their tenth run, he fell back and let Steve resume the lead and decide on their course and pace.

 

Steve eventually returned to the Avengers Tower, where he spent time with his teammates and accepted their condolences over Peggy. It had been challenging, but not as difficult as Steve had been expecting. Because even at his worst, Bucky had made sure to still be there for him, allowing Steve to cry and mourn, without judgement or platitudes, all of the while gently running his fingers through Steve’s hair in a gesture that was both soothing and comforting, and just what Steve had needed. Steve hadn’t lied when he told Bucky that he had always been the better mind reader out of the two of them.  And Bucky used all that keenness and intuition to make sure that Steve still had everything he needed, sometimes even before Steve knew he needed it, as if he were grateful to be able to give even that much, as if it were something small and inconsequential. Steve did not know how Bucky didn’t understand what a rare and precious gift that was, especially after everything he had been through, but he was working on it.

 

So that first day, he was able to accept all of their hugs and kind words gratefully, without any sting of loss, as Bucky had already absolved him of that. And on the second day, he resumed training, working with Clint, Maria and Wanda, getting in a good, solid session that left him energized and with a renewed sense of comradery. On the fourth day, when Sam was there for a visit, he was able to greet him with open arms, and wrap him in a hug so tight Sam complained about needing a chiropractor when Steve finally let go.

 

“I just wanted to thank you,” Steve told him later that afternoon, when the two of them had left the tower to grab a quick lunch. “Everything you said, it’s really helped.”

 

“He’s doing better then?” Sam asked as he looked over his plate of sushi, trying to decide which piece to eat first.

 

“Yeah, he’s doing a lot better,” Steve said as he popped a tempura shrimp into his mouth. It was good, but not as good as the ones he’d had at the place Bucky had to taken him that past Saturday. “He’s calmed down, and he’s starting to finally gain some weight. He’s sleeping better and isn’t as twitchy anymore.”

 

“I’m glad.” Steve watched as Sam used his chopsticks to dip a piece of his California roll into some soy sauce. “And how about you? How are you doing?”

 

“Better too.” Steve was using a fork to eat. Bucky had rolled his eyes at Steve’s attempts at using chopsticks, and Steve was man enough to admit that he would probably never be able to master them. Bucky had called him a dumbass and swore that he was going to teach him. “You were right. I needed to back off a bit. It’s easier on the both of us that way.”

 

“You just have to find the right balance that works for the two of you,” Sam said around his mouthful of sushi. “And just remember, you’re going to make mistakes and so’s he. Just accept it, and agree to keep your lines of communication open, and the both of you will do all right.”

 

“Thanks, _Dad._ ” Steve couldn’t help himself.

 

“Shut up and eat your sushi, Cap.”

 

Steve shut up and ate his sushi.

 

That night, he ended up making his way home later than intended. But it had been a while since he’d seen Sam, and he’d wanted to spend more time catching up. Bucky didn’t greet him in the foyer like he usually did, and the house was quiet when he unlocked the door. Steve knew he was there; he could now always tell when Bucky was home, just like Bucky could tell with him. It was a feeling in his bones, of one piece always reaching out for its other half. As he kicked off his shoes, and made his way into the living room, Steve suddenly stopped.

 

Because there Bucky was, stretched out on the Lay-Z-Boy, turned on his side, asleep. And that was new too. Steve could not remember the last time he’d seen Bucky sleeping; it had to have been sometime during the war. Since they started living together, Bucky only seemed to sleep in his room. Steve doubted that he ever slept when he came into his room at night, to either console him in his grief or comfort him after a nightmare. He thought it more likely that Bucky sat and watched over him, as he always had for so much of their lives. But to catch Bucky like this, soft and vulnerable in the heart of their home, this was something new.

 

Well, maybe not so vulnerable. When Steve looked closer, he noticed that Bucky had cracked one eye open, and was peering at him through his lashes, a blue, glittering slit in the dark. But just for a second, recognizing that it was Steve and Steve was _safe_ , before he closed his eye and seemed to sink even deeper into his favorite chair.

 

Steve stared for a few more stunned seconds, and then turned around and headed upstairs, before returning less than three minutes later, and approaching Bucky’s curled form.

 

“Blanket Buck,” Steve said quietly, so as not to startle him before he bent over and carefully covered Bucky with a soft comforter from their linen closet. Bucky made a tiny sound of assent, and just laid there, perfectly still as Steve gently tucked him in.

 

The television was on but muted, and it cast pale shadows that flickered over Bucky’s face and blended into his hair, which had fallen over his cheeks. It was bit longer now than it had been, falling past his chin and almost reaching his shoulders. Bucky had been vain about his hair in their youth, and Steve had always been jealous as he watched Bucky oil and pomade it, before he went on out a date with some girl who had been lucky enough to catch his eye. But he’d had every right to be. A deep, dark brown with chestnut highlights, smooth, shiny and thick, that stole a kiss from every light that caught it, giving it back with a gleam in a flowing wave. It had been beautiful then and it was even more beautiful now, and Steve was just as fascinated as ever, especially now that he knew its scent of cinnamon and clove, and had felt its brush against his skin. And oh, how he yearned, how he had always yearned, to run his hands through it and feel its silk, its weight over his fingers, the kiss of it against his cheeks if he were ever to lean in and press his lips to the back of Bucky’s neck, just as Bucky had done to him all those years, wars, decades, lifetimes ago.

 

Yet all he could do was stare down at this man that he loved, that he had always loved, more than anyone or anything else in his life, and ache. Because he was a miracle, Steve’s miracle, his greatest gift returned to him from the dead, and Steve was so damned grateful for that alone. He would not, absolutely refused to do anything to possibly risk that, no matter how much he wanted and hungered and yearned.

 

Instead he reached out once, just once, with his own right hand to comb his fingers through Bucky’s hair, pulling it back from his face. The strands were cool and silky, kissing his skin like moonlight or raindrops as he gently tucked them behind Bucky’s ear. One last stroke, one last brush to seal the memory, before he lowered his hand and slowly straightened.

 

“Night Bucky. Sleep well,” he said softly, reaching for the remote and turning off the television. Behind him Bucky made that little sound again, the huff and chirp of a kitten before he fell silent. Steve couldn’t help but smile as he placed the remote on the arm of Bucky’s chair and quietly left the room.

 

It was time for him to implement stage two of his plan.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky would say thank you for being so patient with him, but he's too busy stuffing his face with nectarines.
> 
> Steve would thank you as well, but he's still trying to catch his breath after their last run.
> 
> But they both do read and love each and every comment that's posted. =)


	25. Chapter 25

It started off small at first. Little things, tiny things that Bucky noticed. The way Steve had backed off about the running had been the first, and it was probably the biggest, easily overshadowing the rest. But then there was the extra fruit in their food delivery, and the jars of plum preserves that started arriving that made something inside of Bucky want to purr. The trust that followed quickly after that, Steve smiling at Bucky as he left for the day to visit his teammates, no remorse or fear in his eyes, only a steady confidence that let Bucky know he trusted him to be there when he got back. The calls to and from Wilson that he never hid from Bucky, giving him permission to listen in if he wanted to, which in turn allowed Bucky to step back and give Steve his own privacy. Small things, little things, that helped to soothe the rawness of his nerves, and finally stop the ever-constant itching of his skin that had been present since June.

 

And then Bucky found the first one.

 

It had been hidden in the medicine cabinet of their finally renovated upstairs bathroom, taped to the back of the mirror. It was a charcoal sketch of Bucky smiling down at the sink, his hands held under the single faucet, where the now combined water could run warm instead of either too hot or too cold. He remembered that moment, how he had been thrilled as he looked down at his hands held in the new ivory colored sink, grinning in triumph at their successful modernization. Steve must have captured the exact look in his eyes and the contented curl of his lips, and added just a touch of sunlight and shadow that poured in through the window to the sketch so that Bucky could remember the way it had felt on his skin. Bucky couldn’t help his grin as he carefully pulled the sketch from the back of the mirror and into his room, deciding to add it to his collection.

 

The second one he found in the hallway closet. Steve had already left for the Avengers Tower that day, and Bucky decided to head out and visit Casita Pepe, get an order of arroz con gondules and pollo, and catch up on any gossip. As he was reaching for his denim jacket, he found another piece of paper there, pinned to the front pocket. As he studied it, he saw that it was an image caught from behind, when the two of them had gone out running. But he must have turned slightly, to give Stevie some shit, because Steve had drawn his face in profile, his mouth quirked in a grin, laughter in his eyes.

 

Bucky carefully unpinned the piece of paper and then headed back upstairs, another drawing to add to his collection.

 

The third one he found underneath the lid of their food delivery lockbox. As he examined it, he discovered that it was of him with half of a brownie hanging out of his mouth, while both of his arms were lifted so that he could tie his hair up into a bun. Bucky remembered that day. After their success with the upstairs bathroom, they decided to start removing the tile from one of the two on the second floor. It was going to be grueling, sweaty work, and Bucky had wanted his hair out of the way, but not before he grabbed a snack from their kitchen. He’d been wearing short sleeves, and Steve had drawn both of his arms. And the metal one – Steve hadn’t drawn it as if it were ugly and deformed, but smooth, graceful, powerful. Balanced against his right, not shadowed or obscured, but there in equal prominence, catching the light and reflecting it back softly at Steve.

 

Both of his hands were shaking as he removed it from the lid, and he’d needed to take a few deep breaths before he was able to rise and bring it up to his bedroom.

 

The fourth one made him laugh. He found it in the catalogue he had left in between the cushions of the Lay-Z-Boy the night before. Caught between the pages Steve had flagged of paint combinations he wanted Bucky to look over was another drawing. This one was a little different than the others. It was a caricature of Bucky sitting in the Lay-Z-Boy, with those silly little devil’s ears, cackling evilly at a small, sad looking figure that must have been Steve. Underneath the image he had written, in big red letters BUCKY DOESN’T SHARE. Bucky laughed for a good fifteen minutes over that one, before he decided that he simply couldn’t let that stand.

 

The next morning, he returned the catalogue to the kitchen table, where he knew Steve would come looking for it. Tucked between the pages of his paint selection was a sketch of his own. He was not an artist, and would never claim to be one. But he had drawn a crooked stick figure, and then added a triangle to indicate it was wearing a skirt. In one hand, the figure held a rectangle, beneath which he had written the words HOUSEHOLD ACCORDS. The other was raised with one finger pointed up around which he had added squiggly lines to indicate motion, and above it the word NO. Beneath the entire thing, he had printed SENORA LOPEZ.

 

He knew the exact moment Steve found it. Even if he didn’t have enhanced hearing, he would have been able to hear Steve’s laughter from the kitchen all the way up on the third floor.

 

The next one was once again tucked into the corner of the Lay-Z-Boy. When he pulled it out to study, instead of the rejoinder he expected, it was another sketch of him, soft this time, most of the image cradled in shadow. He was curled on his side in the chair, covered with a blanket, his hair a gossamer webbing on his cheek, asleep. He looked calm and peaceful, perfectly relaxed and at ease in a way he seldom felt when he was awake. He remembered that night, of how he had been warm and comfortable, the sounds from the television a quiet murmur in the background that had lulled him into a sense of contentment and an unintended slumber. Steve had come in, he remembered that, and covered him with a blanket. And he could have sworn there had been the feeling, fleeting and light, of fingers in his hair. When he’d woken up, the television was turned off, and Steve had been asleep up in his own room.

 

Underneath this sketch, in a gentle hand, was the word _Yours._

 

As he carefully carried the picture upstairs, the only word in his heart was _Stevie_. Over and over and over again, _StevieStevieStevie._

***

 

There were more after that. A treasure map of the entire house that he found on the back of a cereal box, with several Xs on all the floors, above which Steve had written _Bucky’s Guns?_ Bucky grabbed a marker, and scribbled NO, NOPE, NYET and NOT EVEN CLOSE on the entire map before re-taping it to the cereal box.  Steve’s “Dammit Bucky!” had him grinning for the rest of the afternoon.

 

An image capturing Bucky while he trained, frozen mid-move. And yet Steve somehow managed to portray all of the power and potential, violence and grace, there in Bucky’s muscles, in the outward reach of his arms.

 

Another caricature of that same little boy, leading a forlorn looking cow on a leash to a small house, over which Steve had written _Casita Pepe?_

 

A quick sketch of his face in profile, sunlight shining through his hair and his eyes crinkling in laughter that Steve must have replicated from one of their many drives to Home Depot.

 

A hand sliding a plate of pizza over, another of a cup of coffee being poured, a sketch of Bucky’s toothbrush in its cup on their bathroom sink, Bucky bent over to tie his sneakers in preparation for a run, nearly one a day, until his bedroom wall was almost completely covered by them, a mosaic of moments of this life that they had built together, that Bucky had built. All there for him to stare at and peruse every night before he went to bed.

 

He had his favorites, but he treasured each and every one. This gift that Steve had decided to bestow upon him, reminding him of his life here in this row house, that was a work in progress, just like he was, but still a home.

 

And yeah, he got it. He understood exactly what it was Stevie was trying to tell him. And as he stared at the wall, he also got another idea of how he could repay Stevie for his kindness, and let him know that this was also his home as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. Stage two. =)
> 
> With that in mind, you have all been so wonderfully supportive as I've posted this story, with funny, kind, day-brightening comments. Some of you have even tossed out ideas of your own. Given that this chapter was about Steve's art, I just wanted to let anyone reading this know that if anything I've written has inspired you to draw or want to write a story of your own, please please please feel free to do so. Because seriously, I've been inspired by so many people in my life, and if anything I've written has inspired you, I'd love to know. **hugshugshugshugshugshugshugs**
> 
> Next week we will go back to our regular scheduled Stucky programming. =)


	26. Chapter 26

Things had settled. Not just with Bucky, but between the two of them. After those initial two very stressful weeks, once Steve backed off a bit and shown he was willing to listen and compromise, Bucky calmed down, and they again found their rhythm. It had been just over a month, and Bucky had regained all his lost weight, even putting on a few extra pounds he hadn’t had before, that he carried in the broadness of his shoulders. He was always going to be leaner than Steve, but it suited him and his long, strong stride, ever catlike and graceful in his movements.

 

There had been a few nightmares, a couple of rough nights, and one time when Bucky felt the need to flee. But he came back within a day, more upset about his need to run than with the actual memory that had triggered his flight instinct. With Bucky’s permission, Steve called Sam, putting him on speaker and telling him about what had happened. Bucky hadn’t spoken, just sat there as Steve asked question after question. They were both surprised by Sam’s reassurance that this was natural and a part of the process, to not fight it and just let it happen. The security in his life that Bucky now felt wasn’t a trigger, but a resource that was allowing him to reach deeper than before. They were dealing with a wound, one that had been infected for over seventy years, and they had lanced it and now needed to give Bucky time to let all of the puss drain. It wasn’t going to be easy, Sam told them, and there was definitely going to be some scarring, but they had to be patient with both themselves and the process, and let time and care do its job.

 

“I hadn’t thought of it like that,” Bucky said once they disconnected. His voice was rougher than normal, from his screams and the panic that had scoured his lungs. “Like a wound being lanced.”

 

“It makes sense though,” Steve admitted as he gave Bucky’s shoulder a gentle squeeze as he walked past the Lay-Z-Boy. “Now sit there and curl up under your blanket. I’m going to get you something to eat.”

 

“Thanks Stevie,” Bucky called quietly to his back as he made his way to the kitchen for some soup.

 

“Anytime Buck.”

 

But this was part of their rhythm now. Good days, bad days, great days. And they were both getting better at knowing what to expect and how to handle the aftermath. Bucky let Steve worry and fuss, and Steve was able to be certain that Bucky was getting everything he needed to help ease him back to his feet.

 

It worked for them. Bucky relaxed into Steve’s care, and Steve relaxed by being able to provide that care. And then when their situations were reversed, and Steve got called away for a mission, Bucky was always there waiting, offering food and comfort, companionship, and even humor as he tended to any injuries Steve may have been unable to avoid, clucking his disapproval at Steve’s teammates.

 

“Do you think you’ll ever be ready to go back out there?” Steve questioned him one day, reaching out to grab Bucky’s wrist, pausing him in his task of digging out the bits of glass and gravel that had embedded themselves in Steve’s shoulder. Bucky pulled his hand away, turning his attention back to Steve’s wound. Steve knew by now that Bucky wasn’t bothered by his touch, but they were both racing against time and Steve’s accelerated healing, and Bucky needed to focus in order to pull everything out of Steve’s back before his skin sealed over it.

 

“One day yeah,” Bucky answered quietly, and then apologized when Steve winced as Bucky removed a very long and sharp piece of glass from his deltoid. “Sorry, sorry. Not yet, but one day soon I think.”

 

“Do you even want to?” Steve asked for the first time. “You know you don’t have any obligation to. If you don’t want to, I’ll never ask you again.”

 

Bucky was quiet for a while as he peered and prodded at Steve’s shoulder. He was using his left hand for the task, which was more precise and controlled than his right, and trying to be as gentle as possible. But it still stung every time he found something and used the tweezers to pull it out.

 

“Yeah, I think I do,” he finally admitted, as he dropped another piece onto the small plate they had been using to hold the collected bloody shards. “There’s a lot of evil out there in the world. Me and you probably know that better than anybody. And it’s good work, work that needs to be done. And it’ll help even the score a bit, I think, mitigate some of the damage I’ve done.”

 

“Bucky.” Steve went to reach for him again, but once more Bucky avoided his grasp.

 

“But not yet Stevie, I’m not quite there yet. I still need some more time.” He wiped at Steve’s shoulder with a washcloth and tilted his head, searching for any remaining pieces he may have missed.

 

“You take all the time that you need Buck,” Steve said, closing his eyes against the sting as Bucky dug in deep for another shard he had found. “When you’re ready, just let me know. And if you’re never going to be ready, that’s okay too. Don’t try to force yourself into doing anything because you think you have to.”

 

“Thanks,” Bucky told him with a quick glance at his face.

 

“You’re wel- _Holy shit does that sting!_ ” Steve hissed at the sudden burn in his shoulder. Bucky snorted and then dropped a large chunk of gravel onto the plate.

 

“That one was in there deep, but I think I got ‘em all. How does it feel to you?”

 

“Like you just pulled a fucking boulder out of my back,” Steve grumbled as he rolled his shoulder. It was sore, but he didn’t feel any sharp jabs of pressure or pain. “I think that’s got it.” He turned his head to look over at the gouge that was bloody and deep.

 

“Oh poor big dumb Captain-I-Never-Watch-My-Own-Back. Do you have an ouchie?”

 

“You are all sympathy Buck.”

 

“And you are all stupidity. Now you sit there while I grab the saline, so I can flush this out for you. And then maybe, just maybe, if you ask nicely and don’t give me any shit, I’ll let you have the arroz con habichuelas y bistec Senora Rodriguez made me special.”

 

“Dessert?” Steve asked quietly, widening his eyes and sticking out his lower lip.

 

“Tres leches.”

 

“Seriously Buck, you have –“

 

“No.”

 

“No?”

 

“No.”

 

So even their bad days could end up being good ones, where they each got to care for one another in their own way, all the while giving each other shit, because that too was who they were.

 

Bucky refused to let Steve even think about working on the house for an entire week after that injury. But even so, it was coming along. They had finally finished everything on the third floor, including refinishing the flooring in the hallway, and were now focusing their attention on the second. They had retiled and modernized one of the bathrooms, and then just because they could, they had gone back to working on the bedrooms. Steve was standing in the second one, looking around at the stripped walls and flooring, when Bucky ambled in, his footsteps silent as always, and came up to Steve, holding out a pear for him to take.

 

“Any ideas, Picasso?” Bucky asked as he took a bite from his own pear.

 

“Nothing yet.” Steve tossed the pear from hand to hand, glancing from the floor to the large bay of windows and then up to the ceiling. “What about you?” Next to him, Bucky stopped eating and lowered his face, staring down at the floor. He was wearing a bandana today, so he couldn’t hide behind his hair like he normally did when he was about to bring up something important, but it was still a tell, especially as he wasn’t looking at Steve.

 

Steve gave him a moment. He had learned by now when not to press, and if he gave Bucky the time and space to organize his thoughts and emotions, he would always get around to saying what was on his mind. Yet still, when he did finally speak, his words were a surprise.

 

“The sketches,” he began quietly. “The ones that you’ve been leaving all over the house for me to find.”

 

“Yeah, what about them?” Steve wondered where this was going.

 

“You know I really love them, right?” His voice was low and soft in the dust mote filled air, and just as delicate as they were as it floated on the sunlight.

 

“I’m glad Buck,” Steve grinned, pleased at the way his little gifts always made Bucky smile.

 

“But then I realized, you must be drawing all the time, even when I’m not around to see you do it. And you’ve always loved to draw Stevie, but I was thinking that you’ve never really had your own space for it. And this room has these big windows, and the bedroom next to it gets all of that great light in the morning from the east, and if we tear down the wall between the two of them, it would make a nice big space, that you could use as a studio, if you were interested.”

 

And just like that, Steve was once again left speechless by Bucky’s words. Because this man, _this man_ had always paid such close attention to whatever Steve was doing, encouraging his interests and never once doubting his ability. He was still doing it now, remembering that Steve was not only Captain America, but someone who also could lose himself in the lights, shadows and colors all around him. He was returning Steve’s gift of a sanctuary by offering Steve one of his own, in this building that had once been nothing more than a series of shabby tenement apartments, that together they were turning into a home that maybe, just maybe, might end up being big enough to hold all of the light that had always been in Bucky’s soul.

 

And Steve, in his concern and worry had never once stopped to think of doing something like this for himself. But of course, Bucky had. He had always fought tooth and nail for Steve, in a way that was protective but never emasculating. His first shield in a world that had always tried to crush him, crush those that were different.

 

“I…uh…that’s…” Steve faltered.

 

“Not interested?” Bucky was staring at him now, his head tilted slightly to the side.

 

“No, I’m definitely interested. I just never thought of it.” Steve’s thoughts finally realigned themselves with the world, grasping onto the seed Bucky had so carefully planted in them, taking root and starting to grow. “It’s a great idea. The light really is amazing in here, and the one right next to it. Do you think we can do it?”

 

Bucky smiled, obviously pleased by Steve’s pleasure and walked over to the wall that separated the two bedrooms.

 

“It shouldn’t be that hard.” He started tapping on the wall with the knuckles of his right hand. “We’ll have to check to make sure there aren’t any support beams running through it, but I don’t think there are. We knock it down, plaster and sand over any of the cracks, redo the floors and it’ll be a good, big space for you.”

 

“We’d have to get a sledgehammer.” Steve joined him by the wall, studying its surface, thinking it might be fun to smash through it.

 

“Pfft.” Bucky rolled his eyes at him and then lifted his left arm, wiggling the metal fingers before he tightened them into a fist. “We don’t need a sledgehammer Stevie. We gotta metal arm.”

 

“Oh my god Bucky! We are not using your arm to smash through the wall!” But Steve was laughing as he said it.

 

“Aw come on, it’ll be fun.”

 

“Yeah, for you. We are not going to risk fucking up my studio because you want to punch things.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“Bucky, no.”

 

“Spoilsport.”

 

“No.”

 

“No?” Bucky was grinning at him, laughing silently behind his eyes.

 

“No.”

 

“Home Depot then?”

 

“Home Depot,” Steve said, reaching out to grab the back of Bucky’s neck, giving him a gentle shake. “But finish your pear first. You get cranky when you don’t eat.”

 

***

 

 

They were in the SUV, Steve driving them back to Home Depot, when he found himself asking Bucky about something he had never felt the right to before; his arm.

 

“Could you really do it?” he asked, glancing over at Bucky who was scrolling through something on his phone.

 

“Do what?” Bucky didn’t even bother to look up from the latest cat video he was watching.

 

“Smash through the wall with your arm?”

 

“Yeah, easy.”

 

“Really?”

 

“You’ve seen me smash through concrete with it Steve.”

 

“But wouldn’t it…hurt?” Bucky finally lowered his phone and looked at Steve.  His eyes had narrowed slightly, but he didn’t look upset, more as if he had turned all his attention on Steve to determine what he was going to do next.

 

“What do you want to know?” he asked, after a few heavy, stilted minutes.

 

“I don’t know. I’m just curious I guess. We’ve never really talked about your arm.” Steve glanced at his side view mirror before he shifted lanes to allow a truck to pass, then looked back at Bucky, who was still staring at him. “I mean, we don’t have to if it bugs you, but I was just wondering, that’s all.” Bucky remained silent, his gaze still on Steve, before he shrugged and turned back to his phone.

 

“I don’t feel pain with it, not that way, if that’s what you were worried about.” His voice was low, but calm, not flat either, meaning he was there, present and not trying to hide himself behind his own shields.

 

“What do you feel with it?” Steve ventured.

 

“Pressure, weight, temperature, textural awareness, but it’s different than my right.”

 

“How?” Steve was so curious, had been for months. He had hated the arm at first, for all that it represented and how HYDRA had mutilated Bucky against his will to attach it to his body. But as more time passed, he had come to accept it until he barely even noticed it anymore. Until sometimes, when Bucky moved with it in a certain way, or he watched the plates ripple or shimmer in the light, Steve had to admit it had a certain beauty of its own. And now, it was just a part of Bucky to Steve. He would always resent what had been done, but he’d been held by that arm, his wounds tended to and pulled from the Potomac by it. It wasn’t what it was, but how Bucky chose to use it that gave it meaning. And he was using it to protect and care for both himself and those around him. How could Steve not see the beauty in that.

 

“Like,” Bucky was saying as he lifted his right hand and grasped the hem of the hoodie he had put on before they left the house. “If I grab my shirt with my right hand, I just know that it’s soft. It’s got texture and smoothness that I feel with my fingers.” Bucky stopped and then switched hands, doing the same with his left. “If I do it with this arm, I still know that it’s soft, but not because I’m feeling it. It’s data – cotton, natural fiber, not synthetic, that somehow ends up in my head.” He tapped his temple.

 

“Is that weird for you?”

 

Bucky paused and lowered his gaze, his eyes flickering back and forth in that way that told Steve he was reaching for a memory. Steve hoped that it wouldn’t start a cascade of images that would send Bucky into a panic, especially as they were sitting in a moving vehicle in heavy traffic. Then Bucky took a deep breath, and when he looked at Steve his eyes were clear, and very present, if a bit sad.

 

“It was at first. I think HYDRA spent a lot of time training me to process the information, testing the limits and then pushing me past them,” he admitted.

 

“Do I even want to know?”

 

“It’s been set on fire, shot at, electrified, had cement blocks that weighed over a ton dropped on it, dipped in acid, twisted three hundred and sixty degrees, forced to smash through glass, wood, metal, lift cars and even a tank once. If I failed or made even the slightest protest, they did the exact same thing to the other side, without any anesthesia or pain meds, before they put me in cryo so I could heal, and then defrosted me and did the same thing all over again.”

 

“Jesus fucking Christ, Bucky,” Steve whispered, his hands suddenly shaking so badly on the steering wheel that the SUV jerked halfway into the next lane. None of that had been in Natasha’s file. None of the horror or absolute brutality of it, that Bucky now recounted so calmly, so plainly, as if he was telling someone about his day at work.

 

“I learned not to complain about it pretty quickly,” Bucky went on. “And watch how you’re driving. Do we need to pull over?”

 

“No, no, I’m okay,” Steve gasped as he wiped his face with his left hand, feeling the tears smear over his cheeks. Bucky reached out with his own left hand, the metal one, offering Steve a tissue.

 

“So yeah Stevie. I could have smashed through that wall no problem. There are very few limits to what the arm can endure, and it wouldn’t have hurt me. The only part of it that ever really hurts is where it’s attached to my shoulder, where the plates are fused with the muscles and bones. It always aches, but those get tight sometimes, and I have to work them loose.” And then, of all things, Bucky smiled at him. It was the smile of the Bucky of now, both Winter Soldier and Steve’s childhood friend, offering Steve compassion and companionship in this suddenly very uncomfortable car trip. “But those heating pads you recommended. Those are great. They really help a lot. Thanks for that.”

 

“You’re welcome Buck. I’m glad.”

 

Bucky just nodded and went back to his phone. They were quiet for a few more moments, Steve getting ready to exit from the Gowanus when Bucky spoke again.

 

“Besides, I’ve figured out how to make the plates vibrate, so that’s a pretty awesome bonus.”

 

“Oh my god, I can’t believe you went there!” And Steve was laughing, laughing when just a minute ago he had wanted to bury his face in his arms and sob.

 

“Oh, like you wouldn’t have experimented.” Bucky winked at him.

 

“You are going to end up going blind, and with very hairy palms. Both of them, James Buchanan Barnes,” Steve snorted.

 

“Do they even still say that anymore?”

 

“I dunno. But man, I always hated taking communion from Father McGuire. He had the hairiest fucking hands I’d ever seen, and every time he went to put the wafer in my mouth I couldn’t help but think of where they’d been, given what he was always preaching about.”

 

“I know, right?” Bucky shivered in disgust. “And he had those glasses, so he had to have been pretty fucking blind.”

 

“Bleh.” Steve matched Bucky’s shiver with one of his own. “But you know, they supposedly have this surgery now, where they can go into your eyes with lasers of all things, and fix your vision.”

 

“No shit? Lasers in your eyes? And people do this willingly?” Bucky started tapping on his cell.

 

“No shit. Maria Hill was telling me all about it. It’s supposed to be great.” Steve made a right onto the avenue that would take them to Home Depot.

 

“Huh,” Bucky said after a minute. “She’s right. It’s called LASIK and people seem to love it.”

 

“Yeesh,” Steve shivered again as he pulled into the parking lot. “This world is so fucking strange.”

 

“You’re telling me,” Bucky agreed as he re-pocketed his phone. “So, tell me Stevie, how long is this trip going to take? Are we just going to grab a sledgehammer, since you seem to have a problem with me punching through things, or are you going to spend another three hours trying to decide what color you want to paint the walls in your new fancy studio? Because if it’s going to take that long, there’s a McDonalds over there, and I could go for a Quarter Pounder with cheese and some fries.”

 

“I could eat.” Steve pulled the SUV into a parking spot and turned off the ignition.

 

“McDonalds it is then.” Bucky exited the truck after he cast another wink at Steve. And yeah, the drive had been rough, and Steve had learned things he had never wanted to know. But in their world, as fucking strange as it was, there was very little that food could not fix.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bucky wants everyone to know that Steve really would spend over three hours trying to decide what color he wanted to paint the walls in his studio. 
> 
> Steve says that's absolute BS, he most certainly would not (as he swipes a Chicken McNugget from Bucky.) It's also the last thing he gets to say for a while, because seriously, you don't steal one of Bucky's McNuggets and expect to get away with it. 
> 
> And as always, thank you for all of the wonderful and supportive comments. They TOTALLY make my day. =)


	27. Chapter 27

It was a strange fucking world, they could both admit to that. But one of the best things about having Bucky once again by his side, Steve discovered, was that he had someone he could share his confusion with. They had very few problems adapting to new technology, but there were times they were caught off guard. They each had their strengths and weaknesses; Bucky was better with people and research, and had his strange mastery of languages thanks to HYDRA, whereas Steve spent more of his time dealing with world powers and governments, and was better at spotting and predicting patterns. But they were intelligent men, and could easily adapt to changing circumstances at a quick rate, and they used that to their advantage.

 

That didn’t mean they couldn’t have fun while they were doing it as they continued to work on their home.

 

Two days later, they were both standing in the now much larger and wall-less single room, staring up at the monstrosity of gold and hanging crystals that was masquerading as a chandelier.

 

“It looks like something a grandmother would hang her underwear on to dry,” Bucky muttered.

 

“Your grandmother maybe. Mine stayed back in the old country, because she probably knew there was shit like this waiting for her here.” Steve could not stop staring. The thing had long, curving arms that looked like an octopus’ tentacles had been covered in sequins.

 

“Buddy, I hate to tell you this, but the only reason your grandmother stayed back in Ireland is because she didn’t want to give up whiskey or her Baa Baa.”

 

“That’s my grandfather you’re talking about. Love of her life, Bucky.”

 

“Stevie, Baa Baa was her sheep.”

 

“Hey!”

 

“Seriously though, it explains your hair.”

 

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

 

Bucky turned his squint to Steve’s head with a small frown. “It is the twenty-first century Steve. They have this stuff called hair gel now. Works wonders.”

 

“You did not just go there, James Buchanan Barnes!” Steve squinted right back as he crossed his arms.

 

“Didn’t have to. Your hair already did.” Bucky cast him a quick grin, before he turned and bolted out of the room.

 

“You asshole!” Steve called, running after him.

 

Three days later, Bucky sat Steve on the top of the toilet seat in the upstairs bathroom and spent twenty minutes fussing with his hair. Steve had to close his eyes and think about Chitauri corpses while Bucky leaned over him and ran his fingers over his scalp, the smell and heat of him _closesoclosetooclose, cinnamon and clove and Bucky._ When Steve showed up at the Avengers Tower for his daily visit, Maria had done a double-take when she saw him, and Pepper actually blushed.

 

“Dammit Bucky,” Steve muttered to himself as he left for the day, because of course the bastard had been right.

 

They still had not come to a decision about what to do about the chandelier, and were back in Steve’s soon to be studio, staring at it again when Bucky said, “You know, we could pull it down and maybe replace it with one of those ceiling fan things they have now. Get rid of the ugly, better light, and it’ll help keep the room cool in the summer.”

 

“That might work,” Steve agreed after a few seconds of considering the idea. “Do you know how to install one of those?”

 

“Nope.” Bucky shook his head. “You?”

 

“No idea,” Steve admitted. They continued to stare at it for a few more minutes (Steve was convinced its arms had grown even longer since the last time), before Steve said “Google?” just as Bucky suggested “YouTube?” while they both reached for their phones.

 

“Shouldn’t be too hard,” Bucky said after a minute, before he looked at Steve. “Home Depot?”

 

“Home Depot,” Steve nodded.

 

“All right, but first let me get the sledgehammer because I cannot stand to have that thing in our house for another second. I swear to god it gets bigger every time I look at it.” Bucky turned and walked out of the room.

 

“I know, right?” Steve agreed, and then processed the rest of what Bucky had said. “Bucky no!” he called to his retreating back.

 

“No?”

 

“No!”

 

“Home Depot it is then.” And then, quiet enough so that Steve was only able to hear it because of his enhanced hearing. “ _That shit’s ugly. Should just let me rip it down. But oh no, Captain Dumbass doesn’t want to ruin his precious studio._ ”

 

“I can hear you, you know!” Steve shouted.

 

“You were meant to!” Bucky shouted right back.

 

“Put the sledgehammer down and get your ass in the truck Sergeant. If we can get out of here without you smashing anything with either the sledgehammer _or your arm_ , I’ll stop at McDonalds on the way.”

 

Less than half a second later, Steve winced at the thud of the sledgehammer being dropped and then found himself smiling at Bucky’s “Yeah, okay.”

 

They found themselves turning to Google or YouTube to research a lot of the repairs they needed to do. It usually had all the information they were looking for, as well as illustrated step by step instructions. Bucky, even more than Steve, seemed to have developed a mastery at finding exactly what it was they needed in order to proceed.

 

He also tended to find a lot of things that were just, well, weird, which he insisted on sharing with Steve.

 

“Hey, do you know people wear meat now?” he announced as he walked into the studio where Steve was on his hands and knees, scraping at the floor.

 

“What?” Steve jerked up, so startled by both Bucky’s sudden appearance and his words that he hit his head on the window ledge he had been working under.

 

“You all right Stevie?” Bucky came over and took Steve’s chin in his hand, turning his face back and forth to check for any damage.

 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” Steve pulled away, and then looked up at Bucky. “And what the hell do you mean, people wear meat now?”

 

“Seriously.” Bucky shoved his cell in Steve’s face. “Look.” Steve’s eyes crossed before he took the phone from Bucky’s hand and peered down at the image on his screen. And apparently, Bucky wasn’t wrong. Because there on the screen was the image of a singer he had heard about at an event somewhere, wearing a dress made out of meat.

 

“Is this even real?” Steve said, scrolling down to read the accompanying text. “Huh, it is actually. Really? Why would anyone wear meat?”

 

“I have no clue, but the people in this world Stevie, they’re fucking strange.”

 

“They really are.” Steve handed the phone back, and then titled his head side to side, cracking his neck.

 

“How long have you been at this?” Bucky asked as he watched him.

 

“Few hours. Why?”

 

“Feel like lunch?”

 

Steve thought on it for a moment before he nodded. “I could eat.”

 

“Good, cos I’m starving.” Bucky slid his phone into his back pocket. “And I don’t know about you, but I suddenly have a craving for steak.” Steve should have known better, he really should have, but before he replied, he paused and thought about it for a moment.

 

“Yeah, you know what? Me too,” he heard himself admitting. Bucky smiled and winked at him, before turning on his heels.

 

“Well that’s perfect then, because I know this great steakhouse in Bay Ridge, and they serve the best steaks in all of the city,” Bucky called over his shoulder as he sauntered out of the room.

 

“Well then, what are we waiting for?” Steve asked, as he did what he always did, what he had done for so much of his life, and followed Bucky out the door.

 

***

 

“What the hell is this? And why does Bruce keep sending these to me?” It was Steve’s turn, as he shoved his own phone in Bucky’s face, where on the screen was yet another picture of a frowning cat, with the word NO beneath it.

 

“Where the hell have you been Stevie?” Bucky said as he took the phone from Steve’s hand. “That’s Grumpy Cat. He’s awesome.”

 

“Grumpy Cat?” Steve repeated.

 

“Yes, Steve, Grumpy Cat. He’s the king of cat memes.” Bucky pronounced it _meems_.

 

“Is that how you say it? Meems? Not me mes?” Steve was so relieved to have someone he could ask about this, who wouldn’t roll his eyes or make fun of him for it. Well, okay, maybe Bucky would roll his eyes, but he would never mock Steve for his confusion.

 

“No, it’s _meems_. And they’re just pictures on the internet with captions on them that get passed around until they become popular. They last for a bit, and then a new one pops up to replace it. There’re literally millions of them.”

 

“Ah, okay. Thank you.” Steve went to reach for his phone, but Bucky stepped away, tapping at the screen.

 

“And cat ones are always popular. Grumpy Cat’s pretty famous, although personally I prefer Maru.”

 

“Maru?” Steve was once again back to confused.

 

“Yep,” Bucky said, holding Steve’s cell out. “He’s a cat in Japan who loves boxes.” Steve glanced down at the image on his screen, of a fluffy looking cat with a white nose and paws, who was staring back at him.

 

Steve spent over two hours that night watching videos of a Scottish Fold cat in Japan jump in and out of boxes, while Bucky smirked at him. The cat was kind of cute, and the videos definitely were relaxing.

 

But Bucky must have done something else to his phone while he’d had it in his hands, because suddenly it was filled with alerts that when he opened them all included cat pictures. It proved to be worth it though when Steve was back at the tower a week later, and Bruce kept nudging him to check his phone. Knowing it was definitely going to be another meme of the grouchy cat, Steve looked up, met Bruce’s gaze and in all seriousness said, “I can has cheezburger?”

 

Bruce stopped mid-step and stared at Steve wide eyed, while from behind him Sam, who had been up for a visit, started to laugh. Steve winked at Sam, and Bruce never sent him another picture of a cat ever again.

 

***

 

It was movies next. Going back to Google, Bucky pulled a list of the top one hundred must see movies from the last century, and they started to spend their evenings sitting in the living room with a bowl of popcorn between them, catching up on all the films they had both missed while they had been apart.

 

There were mixed results. Some they enjoyed, some they didn’t, but being able to sit for a few quiet hours every evening with Bucky by his side soon became another treasured aspect of Steve’s life. Especially as Bucky could not resist making commentary on the movies they watched.

 

The _Indiana Jones_ movies were a hit, although Bucky snorted at the first scene when the archeologist had been fleeing from the massive boulder, looked at Steve and said, “I would have just turned around and smashed it with my arm.”

 

“Of course you would have. You want to smash anything you think is too big or stupid with that arm of yours,” Steve retorted.

 

“I haven’t smashed your head yet, have I?”

 

“Hey!”

 

They enjoyed _The Godfather_ movies, even if they agreed that they were a bit intense and that they would probably never watch them again. _Moonstruck_ reminded them of the classic romances they had seen together back in the forties, and _The Princess Bride_ quickly became a new favorite. “So that’s where that line comes from!” Steve said as Wesley, Inigo and Fezzik headed back to Humperdincks’ castle.

 

Bucky really enjoyed _Monty Python and the Holy Grail._

 

“We are not adding a tower to the row house just so you can fling cows from it Bucky!” Steve could not believe he was having this argument.

 

“Why not? You hafta admit, no one would ever expect to get a cow flung at them.”

 

“Bucky, no.”

 

“What about a killer bunny?”

 

“No.”

 

“Spoilsport.”

 

 _The Blues Brothers_ was a lot of fun to watch; Bucky really enjoyed the over the top car chases, and Steve the music.

 

“I think that’s Aretha Franklin,” Steve said after the diner scene. “Sam was telling me about her. Said she’s someone I definitely have to listen to.” The next day, Steve discovered that Bucky had downloaded her entire catalogue to his phone, and they listened to it as they plastered over the cracks in the walls in Steve’s studio. Sam was right, Aretha Franklin was an amazing singer.

 

Bucky hated _The Good, The Bad and the Ugly_ , spending the entire film complaining about the way the guns were handled.

 

“Look at how he’s holding that gun. He never would have been able to make that shot,” and “He’s just standing out there in the middle of nowhere, in plain sight. Does he not have a sense of how to conceal himself while locating a target?”

 

As Steve listened, cajoling Bucky while he criticized the entire film, he realized that it wasn’t Bucky who was complaining, or at least not just him. The Winter Soldier had risen a bit, and was sitting on the couch next to Steve, critiquing the film’s gun work. Steve didn’t know if he wanted to hide or laugh, because never in a million years would he have expected this; to be sitting on a couch watching a spaghetti western with the world’s deadliest assassin, while he bitched and moaned at Clint Eastwood.

 

“Oh please, like you could have done any better.” Steve threw a handful of popcorn at Bucky instead. Faster than the gunshot that had just burst over the speakers, Bucky reached out with his left arm and caught all the popcorn in his hand. He turned to Steve with a look that was both flat and challenging, before speaking in a cool, even voice.

 

“Of course I would have. I never miss.” And then, and then he grinned at Steve, and shoved the handful of popcorn into his mouth. Steve decided to just accept that this was his life now and went back to watching the movie.

 

 _Star Wars_ …Neither of them understood the appeal of those films. They had barely made it through the first movie before they decided to switch to something else.  When Steve had complained about it to Sam a few days later on the phone, Sam had sounded surprised.

 

“Which one did you watch?” he asked.

 

“We started with the first one, _The Phantom Menace_. But seriously Sam, Bucky threatened to smash the TV when it was done, and I couldn’t even argue with him about it.”

 

“Nah, nah, nah, see, that’s your problem. You watched the wrong one. Start with _A New Hope_ , it’s the first one in the original series, and take it from there. Just forget those other three ever existed,” Sam explained.

 

“I don’t know Sam.”

 

“Trust me,” Sam went on. But he had been right about Aretha Franklin, so after a lot of arguing and promises to let Bucky add a spiked gate to the front of the house if the movies were awful, they sat down and watched the original trilogy. Even Bucky had to admit Sam had been right; the movies were great. And if Bucky and Steve spent the next two days pretending paper towel tubes were lightsabers as they chased each other around the house, well, no one had to know.

 

They moved onto animation next. _Monsters, Inc._ was a lot of fun, as was _Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs, Mulan, Aladdin_ and _Beauty and the Beast. Bambi_ left them both a bit grey and wide eyed, and they left off on cartoons for a bit after that. But the one about the little clownfish trying to escape and get back to his father was adorable, and Steve loved it. Until, of course, Bucky had to ruin it.

 

“That was great, I liked that one,” Bucky said as he rose from the couch.

 

“Yeah, that one was cute,” Steve agreed.

 

“I’m heading into the kitchen and going to grab something to eat. You want anything?” Bucky asked as he picked up the now empty of popcorn bowl from between them.

 

“Yeah, I could eat,” Steve said, realizing that the early evening had slipped away and they hadn’t eaten dinner yet. “What are you making?”

 

“I’m thinking a tuna sandwich. I’m in the mood for fish.”

 

Steve could not believe what he had just heard, as he sat there on the couch with his mouth hanging open.

 

“Bucky!” he said, when he was finally able to speak. “Fish are friends, not food!”

 

“Fish are going into my tuna melt,” Bucky called back from the kitchen. “Now do you want one or not?” Steve decided to have a roast beef sandwich instead.

 

Three days later, when Tony called everyone together in the meeting area of Avengers Tower, thrilled with his latest round of modifications to his Iron Man suit, he declared that he was treating everyone to sushi for dinner to celebrate. Without even pausing to think about it, Steve once again blurted out “Fish are friends, not food.”

 

The response had been immediate; silence as Maria, Natasha and Bruce all stared at him wide eyed, and for once Tony was actually rendered speechless (Steve thought he might actually let Bucky build a tower on the row house to fling cows from just to thank him for that). Over Tony’s shoulder Sam started to snicker. He met Steve’s gaze and mouthed “ _Finding Nemo?_ ” At Steve’s nod, Sam went back to laughing while Tony just blinked at him.

 

They ended up having Italian food that night instead.

 

Horror movies were next. Steve could hear the way Sam rolled his eyes at him as he made popcorn for that night’s selection, _The Blair Witch Project._

 

“Seriously? Horror movies? You really think that’s a good idea Cap?” In hindsight, it probably wasn’t.

 

That first night, after the movie was finished, Steve turned to Bucky to find he was staring at him with the same expression Steve felt on his own face.

 

“So, we can scratch camping off of the list of things we’re ever going to do?” Steve ventured after a moment.

 

“Yep.” It was the fastest that Bucky had ever agreed with him on anything.

 

The next night, it was _The Shining_. As soon as the credits started to roll, when Steve turned to Bucky, he looked pissed.

 

“What the fuck Steve?” he snarled.

 

“I don’t know! It was on the list,” Steve tried to defend himself.

 

“It’s a stupid fucking list Stevie,” Bucky grumbled, rising from the couch and heading over to the Lay-Z-Boy.

 

“You were the one who found it- _Oh my god!_ Did you just pull a gun from that chair?” Steve could not believe what he was seeing, as Bucky reached into the cushions and straightened with a Sig Sauer in his left hand.

 

“Damn straight I did,” Bucky said, clicking off the safety. “I’ll tell you one thing though. If I go upstairs and there are any little girls in the hallway asking me to play with them, you’re on your own pal. I am so outta here.” And with that, Bucky shoved the gun into the waistband of his jeans and stomped up the stairs.

 

“How many guns are in the house Bucky?” Steve shouted.

 

“Not enough!” came Bucky’s answer from three floors up.

 

Maybe at that point, they should have given up on the horror movies. But they were both stubborn, and Steve had heard so much about the _Friday the 13 th_ films that he wanted to see them for himself. So, two nights later, after making Bucky promise that there were no guns in the living room (but he was lying, Steve knew he was), they sat down and watched the first movie in the series. It wasn’t so bad. In fact, it was actually kind of funny to watch it with Bucky.

 

“What the fuck is it with these movies and camping?” Bucky groused after the first thirty minutes.

 

“I don’t know, but man, the Forest Rangers really aren’t doing their jobs.” It went downhill from there, with the two of them arguing with the characters on the screen. Until the very last scene, as the lone survivor Alice climbed into the boat, when Bucky spoke again.

 

“And what did we learn boys and girls. We learned that if you want to live, one, never go camping, two, never have sex, and three, if you’re running away from a serial killer, put some fucking clothes on.”

 

“No shit- _Oh my god!_ ” Steve would never admit to it, but he may have jumped and screamed at the last moment when Jason suddenly appeared on screen, appearing out of nowhere as he emerged from the water. Steve would never admit to it, but Bucky was certainly never going to let him forget as he burst out laughing, unable to stop for the next thirty minutes.

 

Three days later, Steve was laying on the living room couch with his arm over his eyes. It had been a long day at Avengers Tower, and he was just happy to be home relaxing. Bucky had not been there when he arrived, texting Steve to let him know he was grabbing some food, and Steve must have dozed off.

 

But he came awake, and pretty damned quickly, to the sound of a growl and a dark figure looming over him from behind the couch, reaching for his throat.

 

Steve would have to admit that he did scream that time as he fell off the couch and onto his ass. The figure paused, and then the growling turned into loud, gasping laughter.

 

“Your – your f-face…And th-the w-way you screamed. H-holy sh-shit St-Stevie!” Bucky collapsed over the back of the couch, unable to remain standing he was laughing so hard.

 

“James Buchanan Barnes, I am so going to kick your ass!” Bucky may have been too breathless to speak because of his laughter, but Steve’s lungs worked just fine. Bucky continued to snicker and snort and wipe at his eyes as Steve slowly climbed to his feet and approached, his own hand reaching for Bucky’s throat.

 

Just as he was about to make contact, Bucky looked up with one last snort, took a step back, and said, “Gotta catch me first,” before he kicked at the couch, jerking it forward just enough so that it caused Steve to stumble, and then turned and ran out the door, laughing the entire time. Steve took off after him.

 

They spent over an hour and a half running through the streets of Brooklyn that night, Bucky mimicking Steve’s scream with a laugh, while Steve cursed at him in his pursuit. They ran and ran and ran, until they were both exhausted and breathless, leaning against each other while Bucky continued to snicker and even Steve had to admit it had been funny.

 

They were still laughing and leaning on each other as they made their way into the Silver Diner, where Carla smiled at the both of them in greeting, and placed an order for their usuals in the kitchen.

 

This…this was Steve’s life now. Movies and new music and runs through Brooklyn in the middle of the night. Home repair and videos of cats in boxes and trips to Home Depot. Living with a man who was moody and caustic, but who wanted to make him laugh and was kind and insightful. On that night when Bucky had scared Steve on the couch, it had been a long, rough day, each of his teammates in a bad mood for their own different reasons, and it ended up with them sniping at each other before they all went their separate ways for the evening. Steve had been frustrated and annoyed, and somehow Bucky must have known. Because the taunting and teasing, and then the furious run through the streets had released something inside of Steve, until all that was left within was laughter and relief, and a joy at being alive. Bucky had given that to him, just like he had given Steve his studio, a new appreciation for Puerto Rican food, horrible horror movies and hair care products.

 

And Steve was so in love with him it hurt.

 

He had always loved Bucky, ever since he was six years old when Bucky had shown up out of nowhere, to help him fight off the bullies that had been intent on terrorizing a stray cat. But he hadn’t known what the burning in his chest and the trembling in his stomach whenever he saw Bucky had meant until later, much, much later. Even after their single night together before Bucky had left for the war, he hadn’t fully understood. It wasn’t until that day on the train and watching Bucky fall from his grasp that Steve realized.

 

Because he had loved Peggy, he had. After the war was over, he would have married her and stood by her side, and together they would have worked on building both a better world and a family. He would have been proud to be her husband, and given her everything he was, because she had always been his shining star, her glow a beacon in the night.

 

But where Peggy had been a star, Bucky had been his sun, his moon, the sky from which all of the other lights were held. And he hadn’t known that, hadn’t understood, until Bucky was gone, and almost everything in his world had turned dark.

 

He would have married Peggy, but he now knew that a part of him, that little boy from the alley all those years ago with the weak heart, and the super soldier of now whose heart was practically unstoppable, would have always ached and hungered and yearned, for its other half and the only thing that would have ever made it whole.

 

He could have managed to survive the flight on the Valkyrie, or found another alternative. He knew that now. He had always been intelligent, and there was always another option, a different path to choose. But his heart had been screaming, crying, howling for its other half, and the world around him colorless, and even Peggy’s soft starshine had not been enough to light his way. So Steve had followed Bucky into the dark.

 

And now Bucky was here, alive. They both were. Even with Erskine’s serum, Steve didn’t think that his new body was big enough, or strong enough, to hold in the way his heart burned with his love for Bucky. Steve was amazed that Bucky didn’t just know how he felt, when he understood so much already about Steve without Steve ever having to say a word. Steve knew, before even Sam had told him, that Bucky would more than likely never be the same, never remember everything from his life before HYDRA. Or maybe that bit of him was destroyed, its fragments still scattered on the shores of the Danube. Maybe he didn’t want to remember, after being forced to watch Steve and his courtship of Peggy. Steve had no idea what Bucky had been going through, only that he regretted so much of what had happened; his own bullheadedness, his lack of attention to what must have been Bucky’s own struggles, everything that had come to pass with Peggy, while Bucky stood on the sidelines and just watched, sadness in his eyes as he smiled at Steve, (who had been making the easier choice, the less dangerous one; he knew it then and he knew it  now) while never saying a word. All of it, too little, too late. Yet even if Bucky never remembered, never reached out for him in that way, Steve would not complain. Because this ache, as cutting and bittersweet as it sometimes was, was still better than the darkness of Bucky’s absence that had come before.

 

There were still rough days, dark days, when Bucky locked himself in his room, or his screams tore through the night. As October rolled into November, and the air crackled with the cold crispness of the oncoming winter, Steve had either woken up, or come home, to find the house empty, its walls shivering with that icy stillness that always meant Bucky was gone. But each time, Bucky kept his promise to Steve and texted him. And then the last time, just over a week ago, Bucky had done something different, and after four days of being away, he actually called Steve, and asked him to come get him.

 

“I’m coming right now. Where are you?” Steve said, as he grabbed his keys and headed for his SUV.

 

“Truck stop on I-77 just north of Davisville, West Virginia.” Bucky’s voice had trembled over the call, weak and exhausted. “Shit, that’s too far away. Never mind Stevie. I shouldna asked. I’ll be back in a couple of days.”

 

“You stay right where you are Bucky. I’ll be there in a few hours,” Steve swore. And somehow, he was. Bucky was waiting for him in the parking lot of a closed Starbucks, a cup of cold coffee in his hands. His hair was limp, his eyes hollow and his steps heavy as he rose and slowly made his way to where Steve had pulled over.  

 

“You okay?” Steve asked as soon as he stepped out of the truck, needing to lay eyes on Bucky. He reached out a hand, but didn’t touch, knowing it could be hit or miss with Bucky when he was like this.

 

“No,” Bucky rasped with a shake of his head. “I’m tired and everything’s messed up in here.” Bucky avoided Steve’s hand and instead tapped his head. “I don’t know who or where I am right now, but I’m so tired Stevie, and I’m sorry I dragged you into this. I shouldn’t have called, but I just wanted to go home.”

 

“Don’t be ridiculous Buck,” Steve told him as he opened the back door. “I am your home. If you remember nothing else, remember that, okay? And I’m glad you called me. I will always come get you when you need me, all right? _Always._ ” It was obvious Bucky didn’t believe him, but it was also obvious he was too tired to argue with Steve about it. “Now climb in back. I’ve got a few sandwiches, and a couple of bottles of Gatorade. Eat those, and then curl up and try to get some sleep. I’ll drive us home.”

 

A few days later, when Bucky had settled again, and Steve finally found the courage to ask about what had happened, Bucky shrugged and without looking at him, mumbled, “The first wipe. It didn’t take. They had to do it at least three times before it worked, and I remember the way it ripped through my brain like lightning each time and then took everything away while I choked on my own blood.”

 

They had both needed to run extra hard, and extra long, for the rest of that week before either of them were able to sleep without any nightmares.

 

But it had been yet another turning point between them, another gesture of trust from Bucky, and another reason, added to the millions already existing, for Steve to fall even more in love with him, if such a thing were possible. Strong, so strong, and brave, even when he was terrified. It was a long work in progress, just like their home, but with every day that passed, Steve grew more and more confident that one day it would be complete. When that finally happened, both the house and Bucky were going to be the most beautiful things the world had ever seen.

 

He may have been biased, but after the way he had been dismissed when he was a kid, he had never been one to trust or love easily. But he loved the house. And he loved Bucky. With all his heart. Maybe there would be more turning points in the future, or changes unforeseen. But for now, it was enough, it was more than enough, and Steve would find a way to be content with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, as I said in response to some of the comments from the previous update, this was one of my favorite chapters to write. Because seriously, the boys needed to have some fun, and watching movies with Bucky is (as you can see) an experience. But Steve would never have it any other way. =) 
> 
> I hope, if nothing else, this chapter gave you a giggle or two, and if there are any movies you think Steve and Bucky should watch next, please let them know in the comments. =)


	28. Chapter 28

He dreamed again. He always dreamed, those never stopped, but since the last nightmare, when he called and Stevie had come, the dreams had been different. Vague, cloudy and opaque, giving him nothing clear, but only a sense of searching, searching, searching, as if his mind was constantly reaching for something, but unable to find what it was looking for. They weren’t violent dreams, and didn’t cause him to scream in the night, but they left him with a sense of disquiet, of pieces that were missing and that he now needed even more if he was ever to going to be able to call himself whole.

 

He wandered down into the kitchen and sat at the table, pulling over the latest catalogue Steve had been looking through, art supplies this time, to flick through the pages in an effort to distract himself.

 

He found himself wondering, as he often did lately, as to the why of it all, of himself. Why he had survived, why had he been chosen, why had he been made and then unmade, why had he escaped to come to this point in his life now, in this house again with Stevie, the ouroboros of his life, swallowing its own tail. Was it Steve? Steve had always been able to pull all of those around him into his orbit, until they circled as helplessly as moons, the rings of Saturn, reflecting back Steve’s light. Or was it something else? Was he something else other than a moon, one side bright, one side dark, and which side his own?

 

He liked to think it was something else. He’d had a self and a life before Steve, for at least a few brief years. And then there had been the war, and its separation, before Steve had found him in Zola’s war camp. After that, after their reunion, with all the changes to Steve due to the serum and the way the world suddenly viewed him, though Bucky had shadowed him even closer, tightened his orbit, there had still been so much distance between them. So much that they hadn’t known about these men they had become that Bucky knew he had wondered at times back then if they had ever been friends at all. But who had he been without Steve, and what had been the crossroads, the turning points of his life that made him who he was today.

 

He was pondering on this as he turned through the pages of Steve’s catalogue, his eyes barely registering the easels and paintbrushes that flicked by, when he felt it. A stirring from deep within, a clearing of the fog that with it came a memory, long lost and buried deep.

 

Of the first man he had ever killed.

 

He had gone to his basic like every other foolish young man, believing all the propaganda and hoopla sprouted by the US government, about war and victory and doing your duty for the world, thinking it was going to be easy. There were enemies out there, evils that needed to be vanquished, and as an able bodied man it was his duty, his right, to bring it to its end. He had been proud and cocky, eager to get started, and serve his country.

 

Even his drill sergeant and the other commanding officers on base had been surprised by the ease at which Bucky had taken to handling his rifle. For someone who had never before held a gun in his life, the rifle had felt long and smooth, almost familiar in his hands. He had been proud again when his supervisors transferred him over to the sniper division for additional training, where he proved he could hold still for hours at a time and never miss a target. He had wondered at his focus, at the way he could extract even the smallest of details from his surroundings or anything he turned his attention to, and thought it may have had something to do with Stevie. Because Stevie had always been the center of his world, and he had trained himself to focus on even the slightest change so he could be ready to defend, to help, to watch so he would always know when he was needed. But Stevie wasn’t here now, and he had other things to do, so he lost himself in his training, and absorbed the skills they taught him, like the sand of a desert absorbs the rain after a storm. _Your skills will be a great asset_ , they had told him (and oh, how he hated that word now), _and help us win this war._

Less than a month later, he was in France with the 107th, and the kill order had come through. A Nazi Major, sadistic, brutal and fanatical in his devotion to Hitler, who was aware of their encroaching presence and attempting to flee.

 

Bucky had perched for over an hour in the bell tower of the church’s citadel, one of the few remaining buildings left standing, when the Major made a dash for his waiting motor vehicle, and Bucky pulled the trigger.

 

A perfect shot, a perfect crack, and then a perfect silence. The Major’s body had fallen twitching, but lifeless, to the ground.

 

“Target terminated,” Bucky told his commanding officer with a salute once he had made his way back to their base.

 

“Well done Sergeant,” was the response. Bucky shouldered his rifle, picked up his bag, and went to join his teammates.

 

Later that night, the rest of his troop had gathered in their canteen to celebrate their victory. Bucky sat among them, pretending to drink shot after shot of whatever they put in front of him, before he couldn’t take it anymore, and stumbled outside to the alley behind the bar, where he collapsed to the ground and heaved up his guts.

 

Because he could still see it, over and over and over again, the way the Major’s head had exploded, a violent storm of blood, bone and brain matter as he bore witness to what he had done through his scope.

 

It was one thing to train and practice on targets both moving and still, to know he had a talent. But to actually do it, and to _know_ that his talent was for killing was something else entirely.

 

He felt the same urge now, and found himself scrambling from the table to the kitchen sink where he leaned over and once again heaved up the contents of his stomach.

 

As he stood there, running cold water over his hands to wipe at his face, he felt something he hadn’t felt in months. The Asset, pulling itself free and separate, prodding at the memory, twisting and turning it over, wondering over this piece of him that was unfamiliar to it, digging deeper in its curiosity.

 

 _Us_ , he thought at it, at himself. _Our beginning._

 

He felt it pause, hold still, process, in the way that was now theirs, and then he closed his eyes so he could remember the rest.

 

His Captain had found him, less than half an hour later, right after his third round of vomiting, Bucky’s sick splattering on his boots.

 

“Sergeant Barnes,” Captain Williams had said, eyeing Bucky as he slowly struggled to his feet.

 

“Sorry Captain,” Bucky mumbled as he lifted a trembling hand to his head in salute. As Captain Williams stood there, studying him, Bucky expected a reprimand, or to be put on latrine duty as punishment for his appearance. But Captain Williams only eyed him critically for a minute before his gaze shifted to something Bucky hadn’t been able to comprehend.

 

“Your first kill Sergeant?” he asked, and his voice had been kind.

 

“Yes Sir, sorry Sir,” Bucky answered. “I’ve been trained Sir. I just didn’t think I would react this way.”

 

“I would be more worried about you if you hadn’t reacted this way. It’s not an easy thing to do, what you’ve been tasked with doing. It’s not supposed to be easy. But it is a necessity, and one that very few men have the strength for.” And then his Captain had reached out and clapped a companionable hand to Bucky’s shoulder. “Now come on.” Williams pulled him away from the wall and into a waiting jeep, and then proceeded to drive Bucky to a whore-house.

 

“Ephie,” Captain Williams said to the older woman with curly blonde hair. “This is Sergeant Bucky Barnes. He’s had a big day, and deserves a little something special. Can you take care of him for me tonight love? My treat.”

 

“But of course.” Ephie had smiled, and then taken his hand before leading him to an upstairs bedroom. With her voluptuous body and perfumed skin, she had been kind to Bucky, as he cupped her warm breasts in his palms, burying himself in the sweet heat between her legs. Just as Captain Williams had been kind, the both of them working together in different ways to get Bucky through that first awful night.

 

The next morning, after a final kiss to Ephie’s cheek, Bucky left the whore-house to find Gabe standing outside, waiting for him with a smile and a knowing look in his eyes. They made their way back to the base, and when Bucky reported in, Captain Williams gazed at him shrewdly.

 

“Ready to get back to work Sergeant?” he asked.

 

When Bucky had saluted this time, his hands had not been shaking. “Sir, yes Sir.”

 

“Good,” his Captain said. And that’s exactly what they did.

 

When the memory finally released him, Bucky found himself still leaning over the sink, this time using the water in his hands to wash the tears away from his cheeks. Williams had been a good captain, his style of leadership and compassion reminding him of Steve, and they had lost him not long after that once they had been captured and taken to Zola’s prison. Gabe was dead and Bucky had no idea if Ephie had managed to survive the war either. Good people, kind people, and now only he and Steve were left.

 

He felt remorse and a stilled sadness, from both him and the other him, and thought that would be the end of it. But then the Asset moved and pulled him forward, through, through, through, to another memory, another swirl of grey that had been hidden by time, until he found himself crouching on a hilltop outside of a small village in Poland, his gaze locked on the door of a tiny house, no more than a hut really, waiting for its occupant to step outside.

 

Dr. Zymann had been a member of HYDRA for decades. But after the war, the formation of Project Paperclip, and the shifting political climate, he had decided that enough was enough, and was attempting to flee, to escape, and take his knowledge of the inner workings of HYDRA with him to the authorities. HYDRA was not going to let that stand, and they wanted to make sure that Zymann stood as an example to anyone else who may have been entertaining a similar idea.

 

The Asset had crouched on that hillside for hours, aware of every detail of his surroundings, but ignoring the leaves piled at his feet, the cold seeping into his bones and the insects that had crawled over him in his stillness. Until there was a single flicker at the window, and the Asset pulled the trigger, the echoes of Zymann’s wife screaming into the night, the only sound that followed him as he left the area.

 

There had been no vomiting that time, or trembling hands as he disassembled his rifle, before he made his way back to the base. And there had been no companionable clap to his shoulder, or soft figured woman to embrace him upon his return. Only a harsh white room and a sharply muttered, “You have done well. With you as our Fist, we will change the world. Now sit in that chair and prepare to be wiped.”

 

There had been no vomiting or trembling hands that time, but there were now, as Bucky leaned over the sink and once more puked his guts out.

 

 _Us_ , he heard the Asset say to him as he coughed and gasped and felt the burn of bile on his lips. _Our beginning. Again._

 

“Us,” Bucky whispered, accepted, embraced as he stood over the sink, his weight against its ledge the only thing keeping him standing. “Our beginning.”

 

And then the voice, the separation disappeared, and in return for his acceptance, Bucky felt the Asset re-fuse itself, once again whole, a shield of silk and ice reunited in his core, as he wondered at the differences between the two sets memories.

 

 _Peppermint tea Bucky,_ a soft female voice suddenly whispered in his ear, while a gentle hand squeezed his own. It had an accent – Irish? Spanish? He couldn’t tell at that point – and the endless strength of compassion. _Whenever your stomach bothers you, drink some, with a little bit of honey, and it will help things settle. Sit there and I will make you a cup. It’ll help. You’ll see._

 

Bucky’s stomach was a roiling mass of snakes and lava, but he found himself digging through the cabinets, where he knew there was a box he had stashed behind the jars of pickles and olives that Steve never bothered with. They were coffee drinkers, the both of them, and tea was never something delivered in their weekly order. Yet there it was, a small box of peppermint tea, still sealed, but smelling of kindness, compassion, _family_ as he lifted it to his nose.

 

As he waited for the water to boil, he dug through one of the lower cabinets until he found a box of saltines, which he knew would also help settle his stomach, and started to eat them dry while his tea steeped, slowly filling the air with its scent of mint and honey.

 

Bucky was on his second cup of tea and his third handful of crackers, turning and turning the memories over in his head, which ached a bit but didn’t throb like it had been earlier in the evening, when Steve wandered into the kitchen. He stopped in the doorway, glancing at Bucky, the tea and the crackers, and frowned slightly.

 

“You all right?” he asked as he sat at the table across from Bucky.

 

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He wasn’t, not yet, but he knew he would be. This night and all of its memories had been a gift in its own way, but Bucky still needed some time for it to settle and to weave the strands together back into the whole they had been pulled from. But Steve was going to hear the raspiness in his voice, even dryer than usual, that only occurred when Bucky had spent time either screaming or throwing up, and know that something had happened. He was going to worry and want to help, because that’s who he was. Bucky couldn’t blame him for that, and he knew if their situations were reversed he’d be just as concerned. But where Bucky was their stillness and the dark side of their moon, Steve had always been their brightness and the vibrations of their potential. He didn’t want that right now; he wanted softness and privacy, and maybe the kiss of the night to help him settle in his skin.

 

He crunched on a few more crackers and finished the rest of his tea while Steve watched, before he rose, put his cup into the sink, and then tuned back to Steve.

 

“I’m gonna go for a walk,” he told him. As expected, Steve frowned and then glanced at the time display on the microwave. It was a little after three in the morning.

 

“Do you want any company?” he asked. He wasn’t happy with Bucky’s announcement, but this was part of their new agreement. If Bucky told him he needed to do something, he could offer his help, but he wouldn’t protest. And he wouldn’t try to stop him.

 

“Nah, I’m good.” Bucky clapped him on the shoulder, even though that touch was a bit too much for him at the moment. “Don’t worry Steve. I’m not in a panic and I don’t need to run. I just need to clear my head a bit. I’ll be back in a few hours, but I’ll take my phone with me just in case, all right?” And this was Bucky’s part of their new arrangement, letting Steve know what he needed, but also agreeing to remain in contact to ease Steve’s worry.

 

“’Kay,” Bucky heard Steve say as he went upstairs to change into a pair of jeans, grab an extra hoodie and slide his phone into his pocket.

 

Stepping out into the crisp and sharp air of the November night, Bucky again thought of all he had been shown and everything he had learned. So many pieces to his own puzzle, threads to weave together that were the parts of his whole. He was still a work in progress, but he thought  maybe that was okay, that everyone was, even if their lives were not as complicated as his had been.

 

As he continued to meander down side streets and along the main avenues, he was also pretty certain that the Asset, at least the way it had been, would never separate itself from him the way it had earlier. Tonight had been a beginning and an ending and a new beginning. There were still parts that were missing, and memories that needed to rise from the grey of his mind, but these memories, both sets of them, had been a parting gift to each other, the final end of any remaining separation, the last, bittersweet kiss between them both. There was too much shared, too much they had done and accomplished together to ever be pulled apart, and Bucky found that he didn’t want that to ever happen. They, _he_ was stronger as he was now, and he was beginning to believe in his own resources and trust that he could keep himself safe. One who had become two who was once more one, and finding that his skin was starting to fit better than it ever had. There was work to be done, and a lot of it he was certain would still be ugly. But he could do it. He had a beginning, two of them, but as of yet there was no end in sight, and maybe he could finally start to enjoy the journey instead of fearing the destination.

 

Then again, the journey would probably be a hell of a lot easier if he wasn’t suddenly starving. When he looked up, acutely aware of his surroundings for the first time in hours, the sun had just begun to rise, and the early morning commuters were starting to leave for work. He must have been unconsciously making his way back to 52nd Street, because he discovered he was not too far from Senora Perez’s bakery. He decided to stop in for some churros and Bustelo, and have a quick chat with one of his favorite people in the neighborhood, before ordering a second bag of the warm pastries and head back home.

 

Steve was waiting for him on the steps as he approached the row house, his own phone held loosely in his hands as he peered up and down the street, watching, waiting for Bucky’s return. That was something else that he had now, and then, and would probably always have for the rest of his life. _Stevie._ Because no matter what he may have thought before, it was true, and so much of Bucky’s life had always orbited around this man and his huge heart, no matter what size his body had been. Another beginning for what once had been the two of him, first on that bridge in DC and then in the helicarrier, Steve’s gravitational pull calling out to Bucky’s moon. And unlike HYDRA, Steve was generous with his light and loved to share its reflection with those around him.

 

“Hey,” Bucky said as he climbed the steps and sat down next to Steve.

 

“Hey,” Steve said back, giving Bucky a careful once over.

 

“Got you some breakfast.” Bucky handed the bag he had been carrying to Steve.

 

“Churros. Nice.” Steve opened the bag and reached inside, pulling out one of the long, thick pastries, that Bucky knew was now one of Steve’s favorite breakfasts. Steve held the opened bag toward him, offering him one, but Bucky waved him off.

 

“I ate mine already. Those are for you.”

 

“Thanks.” Steve began to chew on the churro that Bucky knew was still warm.

 

“Been waiting out here long?” he asked, looking up toward where Venus’ twinkling light still shimmered against the pale blue of the early morning sky.

 

“Not too long.” Steve had already finished one churro and was reaching for a second. At Bucky’s disbelieving snort, he shrugged. “A couple of hours.”

 

“I told you I was okay,” Bucky said to him, but he nudged Steve’s shoulder with his own to ease any sting.

 

“I know. But I still worry Buck,” Steve admitted around a mouthful of his breakfast.

 

“I know you do. And I do appreciate it Stevie,” Bucky told Steve for the first time. “It may not always be necessary, but don’t ever think I take it for granted.” Steve’s face looked like a chipmunk’s when he turned it toward Bucky, his eyes wide and his cheeks filled with churro. Bucky couldn’t help it, he laughed. “Oh my god, you should see your face.” Steve scowled at him, which only made it worse, and set Bucky off again. It lasted for a few minutes that time, before Bucky was finally able to stop. Once he had, he nudged Steve’s shoulder again, playful this time, and then leaned back against the steps.

 

“Seriously Buck. You okay now?” Steve couldn’t help but ask.

 

“Well I was, before I ended up sitting outside on the cold steps next to a dumbass while he eats his breakfast out here, instead of, I dunno, going inside where it’s nice and warm. Jesus Christ, I think my ass has refrozen.”

 

“I think mine is actually frozen to the step,” Steve grumbled around his third churro.

 

“All right, come on,” Bucky said, getting to his feet and holding out his hand for Steve to take. “On three, I’ll pull, and we’ll rip your ass off of the steps, just like a band aid.”

 

“You asshole,” Steve laughed, rising on his own, following Bucky up the stairs and into the house. As Bucky entered the kitchen, he looked around and noticed that Steve had cleaned everything up, leaving his little box of tea bags on the counter next to the coffee maker. “I didn’t know where you kept those. I didn’t even know you liked peppermint tea. Should we add it to our order?” Bucky lifted the box, smiling at its red and cream colors. He remembered its source now, and knew where he could go if he ever needed more.

 

“Nah, that’s okay. I’ve got plenty for now.” Bucky lowered his hand, and placed the box back on the counter where Steve had left it, instead of hiding it behind the pickles and olives in the cabinet. Now that Steve knew about it, Bucky was certain he would never touch it, especially since he had witnessed Bucky using it to calm himself down. Steve was safe, the house was safe, even if as he looked around at the white tiles of the floor and walls he had to repress a shiver, the coldness of it reminding him of the lab at the base he had returned to after his first mission for HYDRA. All of their labs, cold and white and never a hint of color to be found anywhere within.

 

“Hey, do you think when we’re done with your studio, we can start working on the kitchen?” Bucky asked Steve, who had taken off his jacket and was sitting at the table, working his way through the remaining churros.

 

“Yeah sure. Any reason why?” Steve asked as Bucky grabbed some orange juice from the fridge.

 

“I really hate all of this fucking white.” There must have been something in his tone, because when he looked back at Steve after pouring himself some juice, he was staring at him, his eyes narrowed in concern.

 

“Do I even want to know why?” he asked as he met Bucky’s gaze.

 

“That depends Steve.” Bucky swallowed a mouthful of the orange juice and decided it was too strong of a taste for him after everything he had been through that night. He put both the carton and the half-filled glass back into the refrigerator.

 

“On?”

 

“On whether you want to be able to finish your breakfast in peace, or if you want to get mad about something that’s beyond your control.”

 

“Right,” Steve hissed, pushing the bag of churros to the side and reaching for one of seemingly millions of catalogues he had stacked throughout the house. “New colors for the kitchen it is then.”

 

There were a million things Bucky could have said to that, but instead, with a gentle squeeze to Steve’s shoulder, he went for the truth. “Thank you.”

 

“Of course, Bucky,” was Steve’s reply. And it was just as truthful as Bucky’s words had been. “You heading on up?”

 

“Yeah, I’m tired. I’m going to see if I can catch a few hours.”

 

“’Kay,” Bucky heard Steve call out for the second time that day as he made his way up to his bedroom. When he got there, taped to his door was another sketch. This one was different from all the ones Steve had given him so far, in that it wasn’t a scene from their current life, but a memory from years ago, before they had been soldiers, men, teenagers. It was a drawing of a young boy with dark hair, captured from behind. On his shoulders was not just one, but two backpacks. Through Steve’s lines, Bucky could see how even back then there had been a determined set to his shoulders, as he made his way to wherever he was going. And Bucky understood. Because looking at the drawing he remembered how he always used to carry Steve’s book bag home along with his own, whenever Steve had been sick, or his asthma had given him trouble, or when the day was just too hot and humid and Steve’s lungs had to work hard enough just to breathe in the air around him, to be bothered with carrying any extra weight. He used to reach out, without even asking, and just swing Steve’s bag onto his shoulder, next to his own, ignoring Steve’s frown as they made their way home.

 

Steve was reminding him of both their past and his current strength, offering his own shoulder to help ease Bucky’s burdens. Bucky pulled the sketch down before he stepped inside his bedroom, closed his door and then added this new drawing to his collection on the wall opposite from where he had been taping all of Steve’s newer images.

 

As he lay in bed, staring at it, he found himself thinking about beginnings and middles and endings. Puzzle pieces and loose threads. The crossroads and turning points that made up a life, and had shaped him into who he was now. As he fell asleep, he also found himself thinking of the friendship that had survived even all of that.

 

And then the Widow came back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, um...I'm just gonna go hide behind this bush over here. **waves weakly and then dives for cover**


	29. Chapter 29

Steve should have known by now. He really should have. Because every time, every single time things finally started turn their way, it seemed as if Fate decided their lives were too easy, and had to pull the rug out from beneath his and Bucky’s feet. They just couldn’t catch a single, goddamned break, not even for six months, where they could relax, let go and catch their breaths.

 

Things had been going so well. They had their movie nights together, their runs through the street, and the house had been coming along. There had been rough patches, Bucky’s nightmares, and that strange night when Bucky had left to walk the streets, but not gone far, returning a few hours later with a bag of churros for Steve, and a smile that had seemed heavy, but complete in a way that Steve had never seen from him before.

 

After that night, Bucky had been withdrawn for a bit, but not for too long. Something within him seemed to have shifted again, or sealed itself away, only to reemerge, like a butterfly from its chrysalis, with new and fragile wings that were slowly spreading themselves, getting ready to take flight. Darker in color than perhaps they may have originally been, but stronger too, more secure in themselves as they reached for the sunlight and placed their trust in the wind.

 

After Bucky’s words to him in the kitchen that morning, Steve turned his attention to finding a new color scheme that would work for the room that they spent so much of their time in. A few days later, when Bucky finally confessed to him that the white reminded him of all of the labs he had spent time in, both pre- and post- cryo while the doctors of HYDRA decided to use him as a lab rat, Steve became nearly obsessive in his determination to transform the kitchen from something that reminded Bucky of what he had been through into what it was meant to be, the heart of any house. Bucky had picked Steve’s selected color combination of pale turquoise cabinets and a light, warm brown tiling for the floors, that they could match with natural wood countertops. Soft and soothing, bright and airy, and as far from a match from HYDRA’s torture chambers as possible. Steve had abandoned the work on his studio, ignoring Bucky’s protests, and turned all of his attention to removing every bit of white from the kitchen that he could, while Bucky sat on the floor in the foyer, watching him with an amused smile.

 

“Really Stevie?” had been his only comment, his eyebrow sharply arched.

 

“Shut up Bucky, and let me do this,” Steve grunted as he lifted the sledgehammer. “I couldn’t do this to any of those goddamned cryo-tanks they kept you in. Let me at least have this.” Bucky had waved his hand in a proceed gesture, and just sat and watched as Steve ripped and smashed and crushed every piece of white tiling he could find.

 

The violence of it helped Steve, and while the kitchen was now a mess, the stove, refrigerator, sink, microwave, and most importantly the coffee maker, all still worked, and they were fine to use it, as long as they remembered to step carefully.

 

There had been more trips to Home Depot, runs at various times during the day, movies to enjoy or make fun of, and through it all, the music of their relationship, the giving each other shit.

 

So much fun and so much laughter, yet in spite of all of Bucky’s struggles, Steve’s life never felt easier than it did that November, as the days got colder and even shorter.

 

So of course, that was when it all had to come crumbling down. Steve should have known that Natasha had her own way about her, her own checks and balances, and she was as twisted with her promises as the fae from the stories he remembered his mother whispering to him before bedtime.

 

Christmas was approaching, and the streets were filled with the lights and decorations that heralded the season. Bucky had taken to pulling Steve from the kitchen and dragging him out of the house so that together they could explore all the Christmas markets that had popped up in the city. They agreed to get a tree, but were arguing over whether they should go for big and ostentatious (Steve), or subdued and elegant (Bucky) as they made their way to a Christmas tree lot set up in the playground of a public school. Bucky had been quiet for the past few blocks, but his stride was relaxed and easy going, and Steve had thought that Bucky was simply taking it all in, the colors and carols and all the markings of his first Christmas free from HYDRA, when without stopping, in a voice that was soft, light and carefree, he said, “We’re being followed.”

 

“What?” Steve jerked at Bucky’s words, shifting to face him.

 

“For the past six blocks.” And then Bucky turned, and just like that, disappeared into the crowd.  Steve caught a fleeting glance of what he thought might have been Bucky’s navy ball cap, already twenty feet away, before even that slipped away, vanishing in the sea of people they had just made their way through. Steve spun around in a circle, searching the crowd for something, anything to tell him what Bucky may have seen or where he could have gone, when he remembered the small alleyway they had passed, two blocks back. Steve ran as fast as he could, cutting around people, jumping over families with strollers, and nearly knocking over a Santa begging for donations, before he was able to reach the entrance of the alleyway, less than a minute after he had last seen Bucky.

 

He was already too late.

 

When turned into the mouth of the alley, Bucky was there. And so was Natasha. Bucky held her up against the wall, two feet above the ground, his left hand around her throat. He had her right hand pushed back with his own, where from the tension in his knuckles Steve could see that he was slowly crushing her wrist. And he had wedged his thigh between her legs, trapping her so that she couldn’t kick out or twist free from his grasp. He had her pinned not like the spider of her namesake, but a butterfly and he was getting ready to rip her wings off.

 

Natasha’s face was purple, and she was struggling to gasp for breath. Even an agent as well trained as she was going to panic when their airflow was cut off for any extended period of time. She was using her left hand to claw at Bucky’s, trying to pull him away, but only managing to succeed in scraping her own throat as she struggled to get loose.

 

Steve could remember very well how that hand had felt around his own throat, and he was twice Natasha’s size and weight. Bucky was going to kill her, and Natasha had not been injected with a serum that would repair any lasting damage to her body if this went any further.

 

So Steve found himself having to make a decision he hoped he would never have to make, and launched himself at Bucky.

 

“Bucky stop!”

 

He struck out with his fist, ramming his knuckles into what he knew was a weak spot just beneath Bucky’s ribs, wrenched him off Natasha, flipping him to the ground. Bucky rolled with the movement as easily as a cat and was back on his feet less than a second later, turning around to face Steve.

 

Steve managed to put himself in front of Natasha during that brief time, and held his arm out to shield her, never taking his eyes off Bucky while behind him he heard Natasha wheeze and gasp.

 

“What the hell Bucky?” he growled.

 

In front of him, Bucky remained perfectly still, not even blinking, staring at Steve for a long moment before he slowly tilted his head slightly to the side.

 

“Ah.” His voice held a tone that Steve had never heard before, flat, quiet, still, but it was only a shadow that hid beneath it the rage of a million storms. “So that’s how it is then.”

 

“What the fuck are you talking about Bucky?” Steve held perfectly still, not moving an inch, knowing that Bucky knew his fighting style as well as Steve now knew his, and would use any movement to his advantage. “You almost fucking killed her!”

 

“She’s the Black Widow. She deserves to die,” Bucky said in that same voice.

 

“She’s an Avenger, Bucky. One of my teammates and friends.”

 

Bucky blinked, just once, before he went on, “And your teammate and friend has been following us for the past six blocks.”

 

“That’s not a reason to kill someone Sergeant.” Steve tried to remind Bucky of their rank, of the trust that rank had instilled in the both of them over the years. It had worked in the past, but it didn’t work this time.

 

“Maybe not, but there are plenty of other reasons why someone should be killed.” Bucky hadn’t moved, hadn’t twitched, just stood there in front of Steve wrapped in a perfect stillness.

 

“What reasons could those possibly be, Bucky?”

 

Bucky moved then, for the first time, but it was only a flick of his eyes, a glance over Steve’s shoulder at Natasha, before he shook his head slightly, just once.

 

“Ah,” he said again. “So you didn’t tell him, did you Natalia? In that file that you gave him about me? You didn’t once mention Murmansk, Leipzig, Edinburgh?” Behind him, he heard a stutter in Natasha’s gasping, telling him she had heard, and that Bucky’s words had shocked her.

 

“What?” Steve asked.

 

“She was there, Steven.” And there was all of the rage and fury the shadow of Bucky’s voice had been hiding. “Twice when they pulled me from cryo, when we were ordered to work a job together. And once when they froze me. Where she stood, and she watched, and _did absolutely nothing!”_

 

“What?” Steve felt as if the ground had disappeared from beneath his feet, and he was falling, falling, falling into the endless pit of Bucky’s words.

 

“She knew exactly who I was and what they had done to me. Didn’t your teammate and your _friend_ tell you about that?”

 

“Natasha?” Steve whispered, not knowing what to do with this, with this new information all of a sudden.

 

“It wasn’t like that.” Natasha’s voice was a hoarse, barely heard sibilance from behind him.

 

“Hmm,” Bucky hummed, reaching into his pocket with his left hand and pulling out his cell. “She’s already managed to slip one of her bugs into my phone. She is very, very good, after all.”  Bucky tightened his fingers, the phone shattering in his hand. Bucky glanced at Natasha one more time, before he turned his attention back to Steve, meeting his gaze head on. And in his eyes was something Steve had never seen before. Not the Winter Soldier, not the Bucky of old, or the combination of the two that Steve had come to know. This was something new and far more dangerous than anything Steve could have guessed at. This was hate and disgust and betrayal, pulled into a sword Bucky was holding to Steve’s throat. Because Steve was between him and Natasha, and as a result he was nothing more than something that was standing in Bucky’s way, and therefore guilty by association.

 

“I thought I could trust you. ‘Til the end of the line, and all of that. And now you’re going to stand there, after everything we’ve been through, after everything you know they did to me, and still choose her over me, _Stevie?”_ And for the first time ever, that nickname on Bucky’s lips was bitter, black bile, poison that burned Steve’s ears.

 

“Bucky wait a minute. Just calm down and wait a fucking minute.” Steve took a step forward, his hand outstretched, reaching for Bucky, who still hadn’t moved.

 

“Don’t bother looking for me Captain,” Bucky said. “The Black Widow is not the only one who is very good at their job. And I know tricks she’s never even thought of.” And then Buck tossed the shattered remains of his phone at Steve’s face. Steve lifted his hand to shield his eyes, and in the second it took him to lower his arm, Bucky was already gone.

 

And when Steve turned around to check on Natasha, he discovered that she had disappeared as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I wanted to thank every single person who has read this story and taken the time to comment. I know I keep saying this, but your words make me smile, laugh and squeal with joy.
> 
> On that note, with the previous chapter the_music_and_the_mirror shared with me a link to a song by Joy Williams called Welcome Home, saying it made them think of The Taming. It is stunning and perfect, it absolutely took my breath away. It is a truly beautiful song, and yeah...It's this story. So, thank you, thank you, thank so much the_music_and_the_mirror , and in case anyone else in interested in giving it a listen, here's the link.
> 
> https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=C5jPL3ykw7s&app=desktop


	30. Chapter 30

“ _You were there?_ ” Steve didn’t recognize the sound of his own voice as he approached Natasha. She sat on one of the exam tables on the medical floor of the Avengers Tower. It was as cold and bitter as Bucky’s had been, his own sword that he was now raising to her already bruised neck. Half of his teammates were also there, Natasha and Bruce, Clint sitting silently in a corner, Sam, who had come up for a visit, and Tony, who was standing by Natasha and matching Steve’s glare with one of his own. “All of that time I spent looking for him, desperate for any information, and you knew exactly _who_ he was and what they had been doing to him?”

 

“What?” Steve heard Sam ask, as Natasha shot him a glare of her own. It was defensive and lacked any of the fury of Steve’s. But it was Tony who spoke next.

 

“Yeah, let’s talk about that shall we?” he cut in.

 

“Stay out of it Tony,” Steve growled.

_“I will not stay out of it,”_ Tony hissed back at him. “Not when I find out that one of my teammates has decided to play house with the murdering son of a bitch that killed my parents!” Steve could only close his eyes and lower his head. But he felt the exact moment, less than a second later, when Tony heard all the words he had not said.

 

“ _You knew?_ ” The words were a roar in the quiet of the medical bay. And oh, what a mess, what a fucking mess this whole day had become. But there had already been enough lies for over seventy years, for over seventy lifetimes, and Steve was exhausted by it all, so he could only speak the truth.

 

“Yeah Tony, I knew.”

 

Because he did, because that had been one of the worst nights ever, Bucky screams in the night, and then hours spent crouched over the toilet while he heaved his guts out over and over again, until there had been blood mixed in with the bile, as Bucky sobbed and sobbed and sobbed in Steve’s arms. ‘ _I killed Howard, Steve. I killed him. They ordered me to and I did it. He looked at me and he said my name and I didn’t even know who he was. He was my friend, and I was the last face he ever saw before I beat him to death. Oh Jesus, oh Jesus Stevie, what did I do? What did I do?_ ’ And then Bucky had fled, disappearing for just over a week, before he finally came back, as dry and as brittle as old parchment. It had taken days of Steve’s nursing and urging him to eat, before any life returned to his face. And then another two weeks after that before Bucky finally smiled at him, small and tight but there, for the first time.

 

“But it wasn’t him Tony. HYDRA had wiped him, and he wasn’t even there in his own mind to know what he was doing,” Steve said into the now, opening his eyes to meet Tony’s gaze.

 

“ _Bullshit!_ ” Tony shouted. “He murdered them Steve, in cold blood, and left their bodies by the side of the road as if they were nothing more than garbage.”

 

“Did you even read the file Tony? Because I’m assuming you have it. Did you even look at it at all? Or did you just decide to do what you always do, make a decision based on what you think is right, without taking anything else into consideration?”

 

“So he was tortured. Big fucking deal!” Tony hissed, stepping forward into Steve’s space. “So was I! So was everybody else in this room. None of us ended up turning into serial killers because of it!”

 

“Back up Tony,” Steve warned.

 

“And you think what? Just because he was your friend from back in the day, he gets a free pass? That it makes it all right?”

 

“You don’t know a damned thing about him!” Steve heard his own voice rising as he stepped forward to meet Tony, knowing that he shouldn’t, that Tony always ran hot and impulsive, especially when he was angry, but not being able to stop himself.

 

“I don’t have to know anything about him except that he killed my parents, and that he deserves everything they put him through for that alone!”

 

“Then what about you Tony? What about all of the weapons you and Stark Industries have built over the years? What about all of the parents that were killed by those? Don’t you then deserve the same?”

 

“You son of a bitch!”

 

“All right, all right, all right you guys. Back it up, back it up!” Sam interrupted, cutting in between them. Sam moved in front of Steve while Bruce did the same to Tony. “The both of you take a deep breath and calm down.”

 

“I don’t need to calm down,” Tony called over Bruce’s shoulder. “I need for the Captain over there to admit what a fuck up he’s been, trying to tame his friend like he’s a little lost dog. He’s a fucking animal Steve, and he needs to be put down so the rest of us can sleep at night.”

 

“He was getting better. Before Nat’s little stunt today, he was doing better than he ever had!” Steve defended Bucky. And it was the truth, he had been getting better, blooming before Steve’s very eyes. And now, and now, because of what Natasha had done…Steve didn’t even have the words for it anymore.

 

“Oh yeah, getting better. Shall we ask Nat about her opinion on that? Oh wait, we can’t, because she can barely speak because your _friend_ almost strangled her to death!”

 

“Enough!” Bruce ordered. And there was enough of the Hulk in his voice that everyone fell silent, knowing that word had been a warning, the only warning any of them were going to get. “Tony, back off and sit down. Steve, you do the same. This is a medical ward and I need to take care of one of our teammates, who was hurt today. You do both remember what the word teammate means, don’t you?”

 

Steve huffed, and let Sam lead him away from Tony, while the man himself continued to glare and curse at both Steve and Bucky. Steve knew he needed to leave. This was not going to work, and Tony was not willing to hear anything anyone had to say. And Steve was suddenly just so damned tired of it all. Bucky was gone again; Steve didn’t even have to go back to the house to know that, and instead of promising to come back, his last words had basically been his oath to not return. There was too much betrayal and anger and pain on every single side, and Steve wanted to go home and sleep for a week, and pretend that when he woke up none of this would have happened. But he had come here to speak to Natasha, and if nothing else he would at least have his say in that.

 

“You promised me Natasha,” he turned to her and said. “You promised me that as long as I kept you and Sam in the loop you would leave us alone, and let me help him heal. And then I find out that you lied to me, not just about this, but about knowing about who Bucky was and what they had done to him. I will always have your back in a fight, and I will always be your teammate. But I don’t think I’ll ever be able to call you my friend again. Not after what you did to me, and not after what you did to Bucky today.”

 

“Steven,” Natasha whispered, reaching out for him with her hand. Steve stepped back and avoided her grasp.

 

“Just so you know, and that there aren’t any more misunderstandings between us.”

 

“Steven, I am so sorry.” And for the first time ever, Natasha actually did sound contrite. And Steve was sorry too, so sorry for all of it, but especially for what Bucky had done to her today. No matter what may have happened in the past, he’d had no right to hurt her that way. But Natasha had had no right either, and now that he knew this dance that had been going on between Natasha and Bucky, and the reason for both of their reactions to the other ( _late, too late, always too goddamned motherfucking late_ ) Steve didn’t know what he was going to do. Two out of the three people he loved more than anyone else in the world, and one he couldn’t even bear to look at right now, and the other…The other as lost to him as he had been that day over seventy years ago, when he had slipped through Steve’s fingers for the first, but not the last, time. “Please, let me explain.”

 

But it was too late ( _late, too late, always too goddamned motherfucking late_ ) and Steve was out of words, energy and every last bit of patience he’d had. He needed to leave, needed to get out of there, and maybe just run, like Bucky always ran, and see if there was any place in the world far enough for him to go, where maybe once, just once, everything would be all right.

 

“I’ll talk to you later Sam,” Steve said to his friend, before he nodded at Clint and Bruce, ignored the snarl Tony sent his way, turned around and left his teammates behind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **bush rustles and sign lifts** Thank you for all of the comments. They really make my day. **lowers sign and goes back to hiding in bush**


	31. Chapter 31

**INTERLUDE II – SAM**

 

“You don’t know,” Sam said softly into the silence of the medical bay after Steve’s departure. He had watched as Steve walked away, his head lowered and his shoulders bowed, and knew what today had cost him, had cost all of them. Steve was going to be devastated, and he was going to pull away from everyone and everything, and the only person who could help him, who had always been able to help him, was part of the cause and had left. Left because of his own fears and terrors, left because that’s what he did, left because once again Steve’s friends had tried to intervene where it was not welcome, and Steve, more than any of them, was the one who was going to pay the price.

 

“None of us knew.” Bruce had regained his calm, and was back to tending Natasha’s neck, injecting her with something before he gave her a spray to inhale to reduce the swelling. “He wasn’t telling anyone about what he’s been doing.”

 

“Because he knows he was wrong!” Tony was still on his rampage, and Sam, his heart aching for all they had become, was almost as done as Steve was.

 

“No, you don’t understand,” Sam said, remembering two men on his couch, their arms around each other, one crouched in protection, the other shivering in relief. And the love there, between the two, that no one outside of Steve and Bucky, and now himself, knew about. “This is going to destroy him.”

 

“Yeah, well, you know, hanging out with psychotic murderers tends to have the effect on people. It’s his own damned fault.”

 

“Shut up Tony.” And Sam suddenly understood Steve’s opinion of Tony a hell of a lot better. Because he was a good guy, but once he turned his attention on something he became so obsessed he tended not to see the forest for the trees. And this, this was a big fucking forest, over a hundred years old, with a million branches and roots and shades of green. “And if it’s anyone’s fault, it’s Natasha’s.”

 

“What?” Tony asked as Bruce turned to face Sam. Natasha lifted her head and was glaring at him, but he could see it now too, just as Steve had, the front she was using to shield herself.

 

“You shouldn’t have done that Nat. You shouldn’t have followed them. He was keeping his promise to us, and keeping us in the loop.”

 

“Oh please,” she finally spoke, her voice sounding better than it had just a few moments ago. Not as smooth as her usual purr, but not a struggle within her own throat to form the words. “He may have been calling you every couple of weeks, but nobody’s laid eyes on the Winter Solider in over two years. Somebody needed to do a visual check to see how it was going.”

 

“And what did you end up seeing Natasha?”

 

“She ended up seeing someone who almost killed her!” Tony snarled. Sam ignored him and made his way over the examination table where Natasha was sitting so she would be forced to look him in the eye.

 

“What did you see Natasha?” he asked again.

 

“Nothing,” she admitted with another glare. “I didn’t see anything. He’s still the Winter Solider and he’s too good.” And oh, Sam could see how much it pained her to admit that. It was a testament to how shaken the entire encounter must have left her for her to admit even that much. “He immediately knew I was there, and then he disappeared, and the next thing I know, he confronted me in the alley.” Sam thought that was an interesting way of putting it, when from her injuries it was obvious he had almost killed her. Almost, but not quite, when from everything Steve had told him, Bucky was even stronger and more dangerous when he fought than he’d ever been before. He was going to think more on that later, but not now. Now, he had to say what he had to say and then go after Steve, and try to help him hold his pieces together.

 

“His name is Bucky, Natasha, not the Winter Soldier,” Sam told her.

 

“What difference does it make what the hell that piece of shit is called, as long as dead is next to it on his tombstone.”

 

“His name is Bucky!” Sam said again, ignoring Tony and unable to believe he was the one who was now defending Bucky. “But apparently you already knew that. You knew a lot of things about him that you weren’t telling Steve, telling any of us, that probably would have helped.” Sam paused to take a breath before he started shouting and made the situation worse than it already was. “And I get it Nat, I do. You’re the Black Widow and gathering intel is what you do. But you have no idea what you just walked into the middle of.”

 

“Oh, and you do?” And she was angry, angry enough to let it show when cool detachment was  the usual currency she dealt in.

 

“You’ve never seen them together,” Sam admitted, the memory and its whispers once again at the forefront of his mind.

 

“And you have?” When Sam didn’t answer her, only met her gaze calmly, her eyes narrowed, just for an instant, before she leaned back to study him even further. “You have.”

 

“Didn’t know that either, did you?” Sam crossed his arms. “The bugs you placed in my apartment didn’t pick that up? Oh wait. Bucky found those and destroyed them, right before you showed up. Interesting, that?” And yeah, okay, Sam loved this woman, he did. But he was still pretty pissed off about that as well.

 

“You’ve seen the Winter Solider, you’ve seen them together, and _you_ didn’t think to tell any of us about that either? Now who’s holding their cards close to their chest,” Natasha deflected. And these people, these people and all of their shields and deflections that were more convoluted than a maze of mirrors.

 

“I was respecting Steve’s privacy, Natasha.” Sam was not going to justify his behavior. There was no reason for him to. “Something we all have a right to, even Steve. Especially Steve. Because you think you know him, we all think we know him, and that gives us a right to invade his personal space. But you don’t. None of us do. He’s a great guy, the best, but he’s private, and none of us really know who he is. Except for Bucky. And what you did today Natasha, that’s going to cost him. And I don’t know if he’s going to be able to handle that.”

 

“Cold blooded killers and the destruction they leave behind for two hundred Alex. Who is the Winter Soldier?”

 

“Sam, what are you getting at?” Natasha ignored Tony, they both did. Sometimes it really was the only way to keep your sanity intact. And she must have heard something in Sam’s voice, all the things he was not saying out of respect for Steve, because she narrowed her eyes again as she studied him. It was a penetrating gaze, keen and sharp. But he had been glared at by a man who had been protecting his soulmate, threatened by him in his own kitchen, and Sam would never admit this to Natasha, but Bucky’s gaze was by far the more terrifying of the two.

 

“You didn’t see them Natasha,” was all he said instead. But she was intelligent, probably the most intelligent of all of them, in spite of the degrees attached to Bruce and Tony’s names. She had to be, to have escaped from HYDRA herself and survive the jobs she did. She stared at him for another second, before her eyes widened slightly and she leaned back.

 

“Oh.”

 

_Yeah, oh_ , Sam thought but didn’t say. He wasn’t going to give her anything else. Let her figure the rest of it out on her own.

 

“Oh? Oh? What oh? Oh, what do we do now that we know there’s a serial killer out on the loose? Oh, how long is it going to take me to suit up and for us to get into the Quinjet so we can stop the bastard?”

 

“Tony, shut up,” Natasha said coldly. But in her expression there was a shift, infinitesimal, turning tentative, understanding and laced with regret. “I didn’t know.” That last came out as a whisper, so soft that Sam would have doubted he heard it if Bruce hadn’t turned to stare at Natasha as well.

 

“No, I will not-“

 

“Did you even look at the file Tony? And don’t tell me you don’t have it, because I know damned well that you do.” Sam turned his attention to Tony, who was still frowning at the room, angry and frustrated and looking for a target. “Did you even read what they did to him? Because that wasn’t torture Tony. That was the complete annihilation of who he was.”

 

“What difference does it make? I don’t need to look at any file to know that he’s HYDRA’s bitch and needs to be put down.”

 

“Jesus Christ, Tony!” Sam snapped, again understanding Steve’s desire to sometimes punch this man in the face.

 

“You don’t know.” It was Clint’s turn to speak the words. And it was so easy to forget sometimes that he was there. Loud and obnoxious when he wanted to be noticed, but another assassin among them, able to disappear in the shadows and wait for just the perfect moment to strike, his arrows always hitting their mark. He sat up from where he had been sitting silently in the corner and slowly made his way to Tony, stopping a few feet away.

 

“You were tortured Tony, and that’s a horrible thing that no one should have to go through.” Sam watched as he stared at Tony, meeting his furious gaze calmly. “But don’t forget that I’ve been where he is. I’ve had something in my mind that took away _everything_ that I was, and used my body like it was a doll, while all I could do was scream inside. When Loki did what he did to me, I knew what was going on, but I couldn’t stop it. And don’t you dare think that I didn’t try. They made me kill people, _innocent people,_ with my own hands, and I couldn’t stop it.” Clint lifted his hands to his sides and shrugged. But there was pain and regret and loss in the gesture. “And I’ve read the file – shut up Natty, you’re not the only one who knows how to find out secrets – and what they did to me Tony, that was _nothing_ compared to what HYDRA did to Steve’s friend. They only had me for a week. They had Bucky for over seventy years. If there was anything left of him after what they did, he must have been screaming in his own head for decades. And if he’s managed to come back from that, if Steve’s been able to help him, and if it’s true,” and here Clint turned to Sam and gave him a tiny nod, “then the both of them deserve our respect and support. They’ve earned it.”

 

“He killed my parents,” Tony repeated.

 

“HYDRA killed your parents Tony,” Clint said. “They just used his body to do it. And Steve was right. We’ve all fucked up, and missed the wrong shot, or got there too late, or made the wrong decision, and innocents ended up dying. It’s horrible, and I know we all have nightmares over it. But don’t make this all about you. And don’t make the mistake of killing another innocent when it was HYDRA’s fault. Because if you can’t see the difference, then you need to kill me right here and now.”

 

“And me,” Bruce added quietly.

 

“And me,” Natasha whispered.

 

Their words were enough to silence Tony. He looked around the room at everyone’s faces, at their matching expressions of remorse and sadness, and frowned.

 

“It’s not the same,” he tried one last time.

 

“Yeah Tony, it is.” Sam uncrossed his arms. “Except this time, if something happens to Bucky, we’re going to lose Steve too. For good this time.”

 

“You have got to be kidding me,” were the last words Tony said before he turned and stormed out of the medical bay.

 

“I would really like to see this file,” Bruce muttered as he began to return his medical tools to the tray by Natasha’s table.

 

“I really was only trying to help,” Natasha said softly. “Steven wasn’t saying anything really, and I just wanted to make sure he was okay.” Clint came over to the table and sat next to her, gently taking her uninjured hand into his own.

 

“I know you were, Kiska.” Clint leaned over and laid a soft kiss to her cheek. “You love Steve and you were worried. And I know Bucky terrifies you – ssh Kiska, I know he does, and you have your reasons for it. But you have to let it go, and trust Steve. You forget sometimes, I think we all do, that he’s better at reading people than any of us. And if he thinks there’s still something in Bucky that’s worth saving, well then, I’m willing to bet he’s right.”

 

“It’s not going to be easy,” Natasha said.

 

“Yeah, but neither were you.” Clint leaned over and gave her cheek another kiss. “And you were so worth it.”

 

“What do you think Steve’s going to do now?” Bruce asked, turning away from his tray. Sam sighed.

 

“I dunno,” he admitted. “Probably going to try looking for him. But Bucky’s smart. Smarter than anyone’s ever given him any credit for. According to Steve, he’s figured out how to use all of the training HYDRA gave him for himself. And he’s damned good at making sure no one can find him if he wants to disappear. After the disaster of today – and yeah Natasha, I’m sorry but you really should have known better – he’s going to go into hiding. It’s what he does until he’s able to regroup and calm down, or something happens and he figures out that Steve needs him.”

 

“Really?” Bruce asked.

 

“Yeah really,” Sam nodded. “He showed up at Peggy Carter’s funeral, right in the middle of over a hundred Feds, and no one even knew he was there. And then he broke into my apartment, but to quote Steve, well, Bucky.” Natasha snorted, actually snorted at that, as if she were proud of what Bucky had done.

 

“Yeah, about that. No more bugs in my apartment, all right?”

 

She just smiled at him, back to her games and her webs and not the least bit ashamed of it.

 

“And Bucky, he’s been doing okay?” Clint asked, bringing their focus back to Steve and Bucky.

 

“According to Steve, he’s been doing great actually. There have been a couple of really rough patches, but they’ve managed to work through them. And I only met Bucky that one time, so I don’t know him at all, but have y’all seen Steve lately?”

 

“He’s been happy,” Bruce said quietly. “Happier than I’ve ever seen him.”

 

“Yeah, he has,” Sam said. “And now he’s going to be a wreck. Shit. I need to go after him before he tears the city apart looking for him.”

 

“Good luck,” Clint said, reaching out to clasp his forearm with Sam’s. “Let Steve know we’ve got his back, and that I’m going to call him in a couple of days. I may not be able to help, but tell him I’ve got some experience with what Bucky’s going through, and I may be able to offer him a different perspective.”

 

“Will do.” Sam was heading toward the door and about to leave when Natasha called out to him in her still hoarse voice.

 

“Sam,” she said, when Sam turned back to her. “Tell Steven…Tell Steven that I’m really, really sorry.”

 

“I can’t make that call for him,” Sam told her. “But if you’re very, very lucky Natasha, he’ll let you tell him that yourself.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sam Wilson...The best bro. <3
> 
> And I just wanted to thank everyone AGAIN who took the time to leave a comment. Seriously, I had a really crappy couple of days at work this week, and you all not only commented, but recommended other fics, and talked about your own takes on characters, and made me think in ways I hadn't before about what I had written, and it was the reason why I could leave work at the end of the day with a smile on my face instead of exhaustion. So once again, thank you EVERYONE who has taken the time to leave a comment, because seriously, they really help, but especially this week. So, HUGE HUGS to you all. <3 <3 <3


	32. Chapter 32

This was his life now.

 

Wake up, shower, head downstairs to the kitchen, make coffee, review the incoming data packet from JARVIS, initiate new search parameters of his own, eat breakfast, go for a run, recheck his email for any additional incoming alerts, work on the kitchen, realize the tile he had been laying down was crooked, remove and redo, eat lunch, recheck his email for any additional incoming alerts, workout in the basement, eat dinner, recheck his email for any additional incoming alerts, go for another run, recheck his email for any additional incoming alerts, go to bed to try and sleep, toss and turn for hours, before sending one last text.

 

**Automated Response:** _The number you are trying to reach is no longer in service._

 

This was his life now.

 

***

 

This was his life now.

 

Ignore the increasing number of texts from Natasha, and then ignore the ones from Maria after that, knowing the two of them were close, and responding to Sam’s, letting him know he was okay, just working on the house and that they would talk soon. Receive no texts or calls from Tony, one from Bruce of a Grumpy Cat with an invitation to lunch which he declined, and several from Clint, claiming he was just checking in. Even ignore the two from Pepper, who he had never ignored since he had met her, and at JARVIS’ insistence that Pepper was just worried, telling the AI to let her know that he was fine, and just working on a few things on his own.

 

But never receiving a single text or email or phone call from the one person in the world he wanted to hear from more than anyone else.

 

This was his life now.

 

***

 

This was his life now.

 

A mixture of rage and fury, loss and loneliness, anger and despair, isolating himself while he searched and searched and searched, trying to think of any detail he had missed, any parameter he could change that might give him even the slightest chance of success.

 

Until a week later, both Sam and Clint showing up at his doorstep, not coming into the house, respecting at least that much, but dragging him out and insisting he join them for lunch.

 

Sitting in a now favorite diner, while a familiar face smiled as she placed his usual order in front of him, while Sam said, “This shit will not stand Steve. You can’t keep isolating yourself this way. I know he’s your boy, but you’ve got other friends who care about you.” And, “The last time I saw him, he told me it was my responsibility to keep you safe until he saw you again, or else he was going to kill me, _slowly_. I don’t know him like you do, but I’m going to take his word on that. So, just so you know, we’re all on duty now until he comes back,” and hearing Clint hum his agreement at the words.

 

And then a kindness, a gift, as over cooling cups of coffee Clint sat there and told him honestly of what it was like to have your mind, your choices, your very self stripped from you, and even your own voice while you screamed inside your head. How it changed you, filled you with a terror you did not know was possible, even after your control had been returned, never truly free because of the fear that it could happen again. How even the smallest, most inconsequential of things could make your heart rabbit and race beneath your sternum, because you knew what it was like to have even your awareness of that taken away from you.

 

And then, after that, after another cup of coffee and the tears had been wiped away, being told calmly, gently, but in all sincerity, “She’s really sorry Steve. She never meant to hurt either one of you. She was worried and scared, and doing things like this is the only way she knows how to help. But she really is sorry, and if you could just give her a chance to talk to you, we’d both be very grateful.”

 

Another gift perhaps, or a double edged sword as he made his way home, knowing that there would be nightmares that night, and his own screams in the dark due to what he had been told. And knowing that there would be no one there to wake him with a strong but gentle hand on his shoulder, urging him to roll over onto his side so they could rub his back until he once more fell asleep, leaving their scent of cinnamon and clove on his pillow to find in the morning.

 

This was his life now.

 

***

 

This was his life now.

 

Starting to return texts and phone calls, and remembering how to fake a smile as he had dinner with Bruce, beers with Sam, a night of pool with Clint, and realizing, as they smiled back, that while Sam may not have said anything, they had figured it out on their own, and were offering their shoulders and companionship to help ease the burden of his devastating loss.

 

This was his life now.

 

***

 

This was his life now.

 

Finally answering the text of the one person he hadn’t responded to, three weeks later, and agreeing to meet the next day for coffee.

 

Sitting in that same favorite dinner, at a small booth in the corner, while Natasha told him, “Yes, I was there Steven, twice when they woke him, and once when they froze him. We worked two jobs together, where I was assigned to gather intel, and he was there to make sure no one ever knew who I was. He barely said a word, but was absolutely terrifying in his efficiency.” Watching her swallow and then take another sip of her coffee to wet her lips before she went on. “And the last time, the last time he was used to threaten me. They must have figured out I was planning to leave, although I have no idea how. They made me stand there and watch as they drugged him, put him in the tank, and froze him, telling me if I failed them, they would wake him up and have him bring me back so they could put me in the tank the next time. And I’m not like you and him Steven, I’ve never been injected with any serum. It would have killed me. He was their ultimate threat. They told everyone that if we failed, they would send the Winter Soldier after us. And I had worked with him, seen him in action, and I knew he could do it. I fled two days after that.”

 

Returning her truth with, “He was awake you know, every time they froze him. He was awake and he knew what was happening to him, and he remembers each and every time they put him in a cryo-tank.”

 

“ _What?_ ” Realizing that she hadn’t known, that she hadn’t known any of that as she sat there in front of him, looking pale and shaken because of his words. “ _He knew?_ ”

 

“Yeah, Natasha. And he felt it, every single time.”

 

Hearing her mutter “Oh my god,” and then watching as she covered her face with her hands and shook her head.

 

And then a few minutes later, after another cup of coffee, being told in a voice that was soft and sincere, “I am so, so sorry Steven. I would never want to do anything to hurt you, either of you, but he’s always been the Winter Soldier to me, not your friend, and I was worried. I am so, so sorry, and I promise you, I will never do something like that to you again.”

 

Remembering, as he listened to her, that she had been shot twice by Bucky, threatened with him by HYDRA, and realizing that she had a right to her fear and her worry. It did not fix everything, but it was a start, a beginning and he could learn to live with that.

 

This was his life now.

 

***

 

This was his life now.

 

More phone calls and texts and lunches, but none from Tony, never from Tony.

 

The holidays coming closer and closer, and receiving an invitation to a party at Avengers Tower, messengered to the row house, with a personal note from Pepper within, asking him to join them so that he would not be alone for Christmas.

 

Declining (kindly) that invitation, as well as the one from Sam to spend the holidays with him in DC, and the one from Clint and Natasha, asking him to join them for a post party dinner. He declined all of their invitations, sincerely meant as they were, and sent small gifts to everyone as both an apology and a thank you.

 

Choosing instead to spend both Christmas Eve and Christmas Day donating his time to a soup kitchen. Plating meals and smiling at strangers, while wondering if any one of the hundreds of faces he wished a Happy Holidays to belonged to someone else’s Bucky, someone who was missed and yearned and worried for from the marrow of their bones by someone who loved them. Hoping as he smiled at them that someone was smiling at Bucky in the same way, wishing him a Merry Christmas, and helping to keep him safe.

 

This was his life now.

 

***

 

This was his life now.

 

Waking up in a house that was quiet and still, and walking into his as of yet unfinished studio. Looking up at the ceiling fan they had managed to finally install, and flicking the light switch to watch the blades start to slowly spin. Of remembering the first time he had stood here and seen them turn, Bucky by his side, smiling so proudly that the corners of his eyes had crinkled in that way both familiar and new, and so, so beloved.

 

Flicking the switch off, watching the blades come to a stop, and then turning around to leave the room, closing the door behind him.

 

This was his life now.

 

***

 

This was his life now.

 

Days turning into weeks, weeks turning into months, December turning into January turning into February.

 

Getting angry, getting furious for being abandoned, for no texts or phone calls from the one person he needed to hear from most. For not being trusted, for his promise of protection and safety not being believed when he had only been doing what was right, making the only choice he could have.  For being left alone in this house that was as silent as his own heart, and ached just as badly for its favorite person to return.

 

Refusing to leave, to abandon this place that was his just as much as Bucky’s, that they had worked on together, picking paints and tiling and even curtains for the windows. Missing someone to run and train and watch movies and laugh with, cursing Bucky for giving that to him only to take it away without even a word or explanation.

 

Doing something he had never done before, going upstairs and into the bedroom at the end of hall, because he was tired of this, so goddamned tired of this, and if Bucky didn’t want him going in there, then he should be here to stop him.

 

Stepping into Bucky’s bedroom and finding…

 

A bed, perfectly made. A book with a blue bookmark, resting on the night table. Clean sheets, neatly folded in the trunk at the foot of the bed. Two pairs of sneakers and one pair of black combat boots, perfectly aligned on the floor by the door. Clothes, carefully folded and stacked in the bureau drawers. A place for everything and everything in its place.

 

Except…except for the walls.

 

Covering the walls like the scales of a dragon, every single sketch he had given to Bucky. Dozens and dozens of them, so that there wasn’t a single inch that was uncovered, apart from a wide band directly over Bucky’s bed.

 

Realizing, as he stepped forward, studying the walls, that there was a pattern to it, an order Bucky had been trying to recreate. Hanging from the left wall, the drawings from the first two sketchbooks he had gifted Bucky, each carefully cut from the journal with an exacto knife, their edges sharp and precise. Images from their childhood and the war, in a long series clearly showing an attempt at chronological order. A close match, but not a perfect one, with mistakes in the timeline. Indications that the images had been moved, re-taped, an order sought, questioned, readjusted. Looking down and finding more sketches spread out on the floor, either not remembered or unable to be made to fit.

 

Then the other wall. Its first image a postcard of Venice Beach, then a snapshot, a polaroid of all things, of the house. A tan menu with green printing that read Casita Pepe and had a phone number scribbled on the front in glittery ink.  Hanging next to that, the more recent gifts of sketches, one after the other, hanging in order of receipt. Studying and staring as understanding suddenly flared. He was looking at Bucky’s life, his attempts to reclaim and make fit all the things he had lost and all of the things recently received.

 

Running his eyes backward over this charcoal timeline. Stopping when he came to the empty space directly above Bucky’s bed, gasping as he read the words scribbled in a frantic hand in black marker, a horrific comprehension dawning, the last piece of Bucky’s mosaic snapping into place.

 

Moscow, St. Petersburg, Omsk, Turin, Madrid, Wonsan, Tokyo, Havana, Rouen, Malbork, Warsaw, Miami, Sydney, Matera, Las Vegas, Toronto, Volgograd, Lima, Irkutsk, Dallas, Seattle, Dublin, Carpathian Mountains, DC, Murmansk, Leipzig, Edinburgh, on and on and on and on. Underneath some, a single red X. Underneath others, two or more. Scratches over a few, claw marks over others, and blood in the cracked plaster behind even more.

 

A map of murder, the Winter Soldier’s kills, painted on a wall to match their branding in a mind, the last thing Bucky looked upon every night before he closed his eyes to sleep.

 

Swallowing and stepping away, again and again and again, until he was back out in the hallway, closing the door to Bucky’s bedroom and turning from that cave of memories, wanting to cry, to hug, to be able to absolve Bucky’s soul, but knowing there would only be more bad dreams and screams in the night, and no one to reach out to for comfort.

 

This was his life now.

 

***

 

This was his life now.

 

Missing Bucky. Wanting Bucky. Waiting for a phone call or a text message that never came. Meals that never tasted as good as when they were shared with someone who laughed at your jokes, and whose greatest joy was teasing you until you teased right back. Running alone. Smiling fake smiles at friends who knew, but still smiled back at you. Panic, fear, nightmares, worry. And an empty house with a brutal bedroom that ached just as much as he did for its owner to return.

 

Missing, missing, missing.

 

Wanting, wanting, wanting.

 

Waiting, waiting, waiting.

 

And loneliness, so much goddamned loneliness that he thought another seventy years frozen in ice would have been easier to deal with than this.

 

And this, this was Steve’s life now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **whispers** I'm just gonna be in this bush if anyone needs me. **points to bush but actually hides in a tree instead**


	33. Chapter 33

It was possible that he may have made a mistake.

 

That there had been another crossroads, another turning point and he had once again made the wrong choice. Maybe not then, but now with time having passed and the gift of hindsight, Bucky thought that once again he may have made a mistake.

 

But he had been furious, livid with rage, as Steve stood before him, defending _that woman_ from his past, and all he could think to do was sever the tie, sever every single goddamned tie to a man he had been forced to become but no longer was, and leave it all behind.

 

As he pondered on it now, his own rage had surprised even him. Old and cracked, sharp and new, something in him vicious and burning, snarling _he’s doing it again, he’s listening to, trusting more, someone else instead of us_ , and _no more, no more, nomorenomorenomore_ as he stood and watched with a regret that was unknown to him, yet somehow familiar, as Steve used his body to defend the Widow from his attack.

 

It had felt good to pluck her from the air as easily as a wounded butterfly. To wrap his hands around her throat and pin her to the wall, squeezing, squeezing, squeezing, staring into her eyes just as she had stared into his through the glass of the cryo-tank and done _absolutely nothing_ as the procedure started and the ice filled his veins. He had wanted her to know what it felt like, to be trapped, to be completely powerless, while someone else watched and did not one single thing to help you.

 

Except she had been helped, and it had been by Steve, as if it were her right, an entitlement to walk in and out of his life as she pleased, because it suited her, because those were the games she played. It was okay for her to bug their house, follow Steve to DC, trail them as they walked down the street trying to decide on Christmas decorations for fuck’s sake. But not his right to defend himself or Steve, and put a stop to the intrusions in his life once and for all.

 

Powerless. Once again, he had been rendered powerless and without choice, and something in him snapped, and he decided that this would be the last time, the very last time, and he would not allow himself to be put into that position ever again.

 

So he had left.

 

Powered by rage and fury and, he could now admit, a huge amount of fear, he once again abandoned his base, and fled into the night.

 

Except this time, it had been different. Yes, the fear had been there, as well as the need for self-preservation. Yet this time, he hadn’t lost himself to the wilds of his mind, always remaining in control and able to make different decisions than he had previously. If he was going to survive this, if he was going to remain free and keep the life for himself that he had built, he was going to have to do better, rebuild his resources and find a way to quietly ease into the slipstream of society without making a ripple, but maintaining his access to it.

 

He needed more funds and to restock his weapons. So he made his way to an empty HYDRA safe-house, just outside of Peoria, Illinois. There were hundreds of them scattered throughout the country, and he found that he now not only remembered their locations, but how to determine if they were currently in use, as well as how to slip in and out of them without leaving a trace. And then, with a newly obtained laptop, from which he removed every piece of spyware and tracking software, he used the intelligence he had been given, as well as what he had overheard when those HYDRA assholes thought him nothing more than a useless shell, to find what he was looking for. There were ways to go about things, and as long as you had the money, you could always obtain exactly what you were looking for, if you knew exactly what words to use and how to go about it.

 

He travelled south to New Orleans, and after a few more carefully whispered keywords, some greased palms, and a hell of a lot more cash than he wanted to spend, three weeks after his arrival in the Big Easy, he had a fully serviceable ID and social security number, the details untraceably inserted into most of the world’s systems, which would now recognize him as Cristofer James Velasquez, born in El Paso, Texas in the summer of 1990. Armed with that and additional funds from another easily broken into HYRDA safehouse, he made what he knew would be considered an unpredictable choice, and headed back to New York State. Settling in a small loft apartment owned by an old woman who had a room to rent over her garage in Rochester, he hunkered down and decided to once more take stock of his situation.

 

And was surprised by what he found.

 

In a little over a month, he had an ID, that yes, he would have to be cautious with its use, because he knew Steve and his super computer friend would be searching for him.  But still, it was functional, and would allow him to open a bank account or purchase a car if he wanted. And he had a new base. The apartment was just a single room, with a tiny kitchenette and an attached toilet with a stand up shower, and was small and a little run down. But it was clean and had heat and a private entrance. His landlady was a bit of a chatterbox, but harmless. And she was kind and more than willing to provide him with a hot meal in exchange for a few, simple home repairs. (She was an excellent cook, Bucky discovered over a plate of spaghetti and meatballs, and he had to admit that he certainly did know how to pick them.) He had enough cash stolen from HYDRA that if he focused mostly on shelter, clothes and food, and was frugal in everything else, he could manage for quite some time. Even more importantly, he had managed to maintain a solid eating schedule and not lost any weight, which he knew was a tremendous improvement.

 

Because this time, this time had been different. It hadn’t been his desperate scramble across the country his first few months of freedom had been, where his only conscious thought had been to avoid recapture at any costs. And it hadn’t been a panicked fleeing into the night, when the horrors of his own past and mind terrified him beyond all sense. His dreams had actually been quiet, and his sleep, while not deep due to the awareness of his environment, was undisturbed. He knew that would change, and that the waves of memories and nightmares would return, but for now it was as if some part of him had switched itself off, making enough space in his head so he could catalogue and keep track of everything he needed to do to perform his mission, its initially undefined parameters resolving themselves into relocation, safety, security and protection. That meant he had to keep up his self-care in order to maintain optimal performance.

 

He hadn’t done too badly, he thought, and if asked he would have said the mission was a success.

 

That did not mean that he was going to allow himself to get cocky. That had been one of his problems in the past, and he was determined not to commit the same mistakes. And HYDRA was still out there. Even though they had been quiet, he knew they were not going to allow their greatest asset to escape without a fight. But he now knew what to look for, and how to set up his own parameters with specific keywords that indicated any potential for action, that he could monitor in silence from an invisible distance. And he still cleaned his guns and sharpened his knives, and went for runs in the middle of the night and kept up his training regimen to maintain his strength and dexterity.

 

So overall, not too shabby. It was not the most luxurious or comfortable of lives, but it wasn’t too bad overall.

 

Or at least it felt that way to him for another week, as he settled even further in his skin, and then realized that he might have created something small but new, but what he had left behind had been tremendous and a treasure.

 

Because now that his mind had finally calmed, he was able to take a deep breath and look around without an immediate task he needed to accomplish, and he realized that he missed it. He missed Brooklyn and Sunset Park and all of its little shops and restaurants. He missed chatting with Mr. Yuen and bags of steaming pork buns, late night double bacon cheeseburgers and strawberry milkshakes while Carla told him about her grandson, churros and Bustelo that was strong enough to put hair on any man’s chest, and Puerto Rican food from a kitchen run by a fierce grandmother and the smiles of her family whenever he went inside. Late night runs, trips to Home Depot, horrible movies, and a chair that was the most comfortable thing he had ever sat in. A red row house, with cracked front steps and a border that still didn’t have a gate he could close and lock properly.

 

And Stevie.

 

Oh god, how he missed Stevie.

 

His smile and his laughter and the way he was a stubborn asshole who never knew when to back off, but was usually right about it in the end. The way he could take any shit Bucky gave and throw it right back at him, laughing all the while, because it was just as much fun for him as it was for Bucky. How he accepted the cracks in Bucky’s soul, holding his pieces together with gentle hands, while he filled those cracks with color, his fingers held open, never trapping Bucky within a cage, but providing a perch that was steady and safe while Bucky tried to figure out if he could fly. Not a perfect man, no. But still the best of them, never forgetting his own imperfections and using them to remind himself of everything he stood and fought for.

 

Yet Steve had chosen the Widow, and Bucky didn’t know if he would ever be able to come to terms with that.

 

It itched at him; not in the way his skin had been itching during those initial weeks of his first return only a few months ago. But deep in his brain, alongside the ache in his heart, that was pulling him into two pieces, self-protection versus self-sacrifice, and making him wonder which was worth more.

 

Steve had his friends, and his life, and what he always believed was his duty to the world. Where did Bucky fit into that? Could he even fit into that as he was now, scarred and damaged but more complete than he had previously been. Did he want to, if it meant knowing that the Widow would be there, and Steve would continue to ask him if he wanted to have dinner with Wilson so the three of them could all sit together and just talk, face to face, without the shadow of grief hanging over them all. Could he live without Steve? Survive, yes. He had proven that to himself. But would it be living without the one person who had been a golden boy and was now a golden man, who had caught Bucky without even trying and pulled him into his orbit, so that now everything that Bucky had been and was, was covered by the sketch marks of Steve’s hand.

 

Would he even want him to come back after this last time? Bucky knew he had hurt Steve, and that he would be devastated by this last abandonment. Even Steve’s heart and forgiveness had to have limits, and Bucky knew he had shattered those time and time again. If he reached out, would there even be an answer. And how would the Widow and Wilson react? What would their opinions be, since Bucky now knew those held more weight than his own, even though they were all still useless at watching Stevie’s back.

 

Companionship versus self-preservation. Compromise versus loneliness. Friendship, laughter, a heartbeat that matched your own versus independence.

 

A cold in your bones that never went away unless you were being smiled at by a big blond man, with bright eyes, and a heart bigger than the world.

 

It was possible that he may have made a mistake.

 

But Bucky didn’t know what to do. So, for the first time in his life, he did nothing. He had dinners with Mrs. Salvatore, and went back to his room, and cleaned his guns and sharpened his knives. He sat and he thought and he pondered and he didn’t dream, trying to come to a decision, while in the background his laptop searched and filtered and then chirped through the static that had once been his life.

 

Hearing the sound, Bucky turned and stared at the screen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once more, I just want to say that you guys are the most amazing, generous, funny, intelligent and creative people I have ever encountered. Your comments have made me laugh, cry, smile, sob and dance in my seat. I am so grateful to each and every one of you who has agreed to go on this Stucky journey with me. <3 <3 <3 
> 
> That said, in the comments for the last chapter the_music_and_the_mirror shared with me an absolutely AMAZING playlist she created for The Taming. OMG, it is SO SO good, so I'm going to share it here if you're interested in giving it a listen. (Because seriously, totally worth it!)
> 
> https://open.spotify.com/user/1224598630/playlist/2llyw55k8vSUxIyIpu1W93?si=7W5D4S93SoqqJChWzUOgqw


	34. Chapter 34

In the second week of February, HYDRA struck.

 

On a cold, cloudy and dismal night, with torrential winds and a never ending icy rain, they attacked a building in Washington Heights, where some idiotic civilians had stored the discarded remains of Chitauri weapons they had found and were trying to sell.

 

HYDRA had heard about the stash, and of course they wanted them. The alien technology was unlike any other on the planet, and if they could get their hands on it, it would help them in their never-ending quest to take over the world.

 

The Avengers had been summoned and gotten there as soon as they could, but the mission was a disaster from the moment they arrived. They were battling the winds and the rain, trying to avoid hurting any of the remaining people fleeing the scene, and HYDRA had come prepared. There were over fifty agents, all heavily armed and armored, and they had captured a busload of civilians they were using as hostages.

 

There were worse missions, there were always worse missions ( _don’t think of Azzano, don’t think of Azzano_ ) but this one was already pretty bad.

 

A truckload of the weapons had already driven away, and Tony in his suit and the Hulk had taken off after them in pursuit. Maria was trying to take down the agents surrounding the bus, but they kept moving, returning her fire, and the weather conditions were not helping, making nearly every shot she attempted an impossible one. They had grounded Sam as well, his wings practically useless in the storm, and their weight only made him heavier and slower on his feet, now that his main advantage had been stripped away. Clint had to abandon his position from the top of a nearby building, to join Steve and Natasha in the fray. He was an excellent shot, the best Steve had ever met ( _except for one, except for one)_ , but any archer, even one as brilliant and fast as Clint, had to submit to the limitations of the weather. So he had taken to using his bow as a staff, laying into his opponents with a force Steve knew from experience could easily bring a man to his knees.

 

Using his fists and his shield, Steve had already managed to take down at least fifteen of them. And Natasha, beautiful, deadly, and precise, was cutting her own swath through HYDRA’s agents, but it was taking time they did not have as another van filled with operatives arrived and poured out into the streets.

 

And then it got even worse.

 

As the last agent left the van, there was a heavy _thunk-thunk-thunk_ on the concrete that could be heard even above the storm, when a man emerged and approached the scene.

 

He was encased in a cage of body armor that was a mix of machine and metal that made him at least seven feet tall. Not as sleek, advanced or agile as Tony’s suit, but its weight gave him a stability on the icy wet ground that everyone else, including the HYDRA agents, was struggling for. His face was covered completely by a mask of black glass that concealed his features as he stopped, looked around, and then turned that blank bowl of obsidian in Steve’s direction.

 

“Well, look who’s here,” his distorted voice said. “I am so going to enjoy this.” He lurched forward, and with arms raised, lunged at Steve. Steve threw the agent he had been dealing with, slamming him into a wall, and turned to engage.

 

Fists and fury and the pounding of his shield against metal, Steve and this new soldier fought. Steve was the better fighter, faster, more agile, but the suit around the man managed to protect him from the worst of Steve’s blows. Steve shifted from trying to overpower him, to searching for his weak spots, aiming for the joints at his elbows, shoulders and knees. His last strike was successful, its impact reverberating up his own arm, sending the bastard stumbling forward, down to one knee. Steve took a step toward him, pulling back to deliver a final hit, when the man shook his head, laughed and lurched forward with his arm outstretched, grabbing Steve by the throat. It wasn’t a hand that tightened around his neck, lifting Steve from the ground in an unmovable grip, but a vise, attempting to crush his airway in a mimicry of fingers. Steve kicked at his chest, using all of his strength, and the soldier stumbled again, but his hold never loosened.

 

“How does it feel to be on the other side, Captain?” that distorted voice asked. “To look into the face of someone you hate, and know that you’re going to lose.”

 

“I haven’t lost yet,” Steve growled, slamming his fist into the side of that black mask. His head jerked, but his grip didn’t falter.

 

“No, but you will,” was his smug response. “And I’ll be able to go back to HYDRA and tell them I was the one who finally killed Captain America.”

 

“Who are you?” It was a wheeze and a gasp that Steve had to fight for, as he tried to conserve his energy and save his breath.

 

“Oh, don’t you remember me Captain?” The voice said, before he tapped the side of his head with his free hand, and the glass lowered, revealing a burnt and scarred face that was still familiar to Steve.

 

“Brock.”

 

“They call me Cross Bones now.” His eyes glittered with hate and revenge as he lifted Steve even further from the ground. “And I’m their new super soldier. Well, one of them anyhow. But the other one’s been put back in the ice for now.”

 

“What?” Steve’s voice trembled in the rain, as grey as the clouds and just as thick.

 

“They found him, you know. Nobody ever escapes from HYDRA, and they found him and they dragged him back and they _wiped. His. Brain._ ” He sang the last bit, as cheerfully as a child singing a nursery rhyme.

 

And suddenly Steve couldn’t feel the cold or the vise around his throat anymore. Because nothing was as cold, would ever be as cold, as the stabbing pain, the bleed of failure, coursing through his veins. It made him falter, made him give up for just a second, but it must have been enough, because Brock smiled.

 

“He called for you, you know. He screamed your name. Your pal, your buddy, your Bucky,” he spat before he grinned again. “Aw, look at your face. He had the same expression when we-“

 

_Crack! Crack! Crack!_

 

Steve was falling to the ground before he even recognized the sound of gunshots, Brock’s body collapsing backwards, a perfect rosette of brain, blood and bone matter blooming from what had once been his forehead. Gasping, turning, rolling to his knees, Steve looked over his shoulder to see two other HYDRA agents twitching on the sidewalk, one with a knife in her hand, the other a cattle prod, who must have been coming up from behind to make sure Brock finished his job, both with the matching kiss of a bloody flower on their heads.

 

_Crack!_

 

From somewhere up above, a window shattered and from it was falling another agent, a hidden sniper none of them had been aware of.

 

_Crack! Crack!_

 

The two men who had been shooting at Sam, forcing him to use his wings as a shield and leaving him unable to attack, joining their comrades on the ground.

 

_Crack!_

 

More shattering of glass as the window of the van that had delivered the latest round of HYDRA agents was blown inward, the driver slumping forward as her neck exploded in a waterfall of bright, red blood.

 

_Crack! Crack! Crack!_

 

Three of the five soldiers who had been surrounding the bus of hostages were next, the suddenness of their deaths giving Maria the opportunity to shoot the remaining two.

 

“Where the fuck are those coming from?” Sam asked, looking around.

 

“Who the hell is shooting like that?” Clint turned, scanning the area, trying to find the sightlines.

 

“Who cares? They’ve given us an advantage. Let’s use it!” Maria hissed, as focused and furious as the wet cat her drenched form mimicked.

 

Impossible shots. Perfect shots. Not a single bullet wasted. Their source and location unknown. And as Steve picked up his shield and rose to his feet, he knew, _he knew_ who had made them. Because there was only one person, there had only ever been one person, who could take shots like that and not miss.

 

Looking around at the ensuing confusion, Steve knew he was not the only one who had figured it out. Because where before HYDRA’s forces had been organized and focused, they were now stumbling, confused and afraid. Their ultimate soldier had been killed, their hidden sniper removed from the playing field, and even they seemed to know that the tide had turned as they scrambled to escape, whispering “ _The Winter Soldier_ ” in fear, the name HYDRA had given to all their nightmares.

 

It was almost too simple after that. It was hard to remain and fight with the same determination from before and not flinch, when you knew there was an enemy out there that could pick you off as easily as breathing within a second if you stepped into their crosshairs. They were frightened, and made stupid by their fear, and it took less than five minutes for Steve and the rest of his team to incapacitate and capture, their part of the battle now won.

 

Steve stepped out into the middle of the street, where Brock’s corpse still lay, his shield in his hand and looked around. He couldn’t see him, had never been able to see him, unless he wanted to reveal himself. And the still howling wind and pouring rain was holding tight to its secrets. Yet Steve had never needed his eyes to know when he was being held by that gaze, cold and deadly, perfect and precise, but still, even now, protective of him, wanting to make sure he was safe.

 

Steve closed his eyes and lowered his head, waiting for that feeling, that icy kiss on the back of his neck, searching, searching, searching until…

 

Without even bothering to open his eyes, Steve lifted his arm and with all of his strength and a precision of his own, threw his shield out into the storm.

 

Five seconds.

 

Seven seconds.

 

Ten.

 

And then a silent whizzing approaching in the dark, and Steve was reaching up to pluck his returning shield from the air.

 

“ _Bucky!_ ” he laughed, laughed for the first time in months.

 

“Is it really him?” Sam asked.

 

“Yeah, it’s him,” Steve said, and then frowned. Because there was enough time and distance between them for Bucky to slip away again, long before Steve even had a chance to catch him. “Sam!” Steve turned to face his friend only to find that Sam was already nodding at him.

 

“ _Go!_ ” Sam told him. “We got this.”

 

“Good luck, Steven,” Natasha said with a nod of her own.

 

Taking off at a run, Steve went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And well, because even I'm not that mean...


	35. Chapter 35

Steve would never know how he made it back to the row house as fast as he did. But somehow, in spite of the continuous storm and a battle against New York City’s never-ending traffic, he managed to make it back to 52nd Street in less than thirty minutes, skidding to a stop and abandoning his motor cycle in the street as he bolted up the front steps.

 

Because the lights in the kitchen were on.

 

_The lights in the kitchen were on._

 

Bursting through the door, he tossed his shield and helmet aside and found Bucky standing in the hallway, his arms crossed, glaring at him. His long, wet hair was clinging to his face, and he was wearing the tack pants and vest of his Winter Soldier gear. And his eyes, his clear, bright, pale blue eyes were blazing with fury.

 

 _“What the fuck Steve?”_ he hissed. And oh, he was pissed off. But that only made two of them. “I leave you alone for just a couple of weeks, and you almost get yourself killed by HYDRA?”

 

“It wasn’t just a couple of weeks Bucky! It’s been over two fucking months!” Steve shouted back as he stormed into the hallway. “Where the hell have you been?”

 

“The fuck does that matter right now?” Bucky stalked toward him, uncrossing his arms and using his right hand to push his hair back from his face, while his left arm with its red star gleamed beneath the light. “What the hell is wrong with you? Letting that asshole Rumlow grab you by the throat like that, while those idiot teammates of yours failed to do their fucking jobs! _Again!_ ”

 

“It fucking matters Bucky! What the hell is wrong with you, taking off like that, and not giving me a single goddamned call or text to let me know you were all right when you know how much it drives me crazy when you do that!”

 

“Don’t give me that bullshit Steve, when we both know very well who you would choose if it ever came down to it!”

 

“Is that what this has been about? All this time, you pitching a fit because you haven’t figured it out by now?” They were circling each other, coming closer and then pulling back, anger and frustration, maybe even seventy years of it, guiding their steps.

 

“I was there Steve, I know what happened-“

 

“Because it’s you Bucky!” Steve lurched forward, causing Bucky to reverse so that his back was against the wall. Steve took another step forward, and in his anger and desperation, slammed his fist above Bucky’s shoulder, trapping him between the wall and Steve’s body. “I will always choose you!”

 

Bucky fell silent, his eyes wide as he glanced between Steve’s fist above his shoulder and the expression on Steve’s face. Steve closed his eyes and lowered his head, not touching but close enough so that he could feel the heat of Bucky’s body and smell the cinnamon and clove of Bucky’s hair, faint beneath the scent of rain, but still there.

 

“I spent over a year and a half looking for you Bucky, a year and a half,” Steve said. “I did everything I could think of to try and find you, and I even lied to my friends and my teammates when they told me I should just give it up already, and kept looking for you. And when I finally found you, when you finally let me find you, you looked at me as if you never knew me, but I was still so happy because you were alive. And then you finally came home, and I had to wait two more fucking months before I even dared come to see you, because I wanted you to feel safe. You didn’t even talk to me that day, just looked at me again like you didn’t know me.” Steve needed to stop and take a breath, because that day was one of Steve’s pictures, pinned to the wall of his heart like Bucky had his pinned to his bedroom wall.

 

“I always knew who you were Steve,” Bucky said into the quiet. “HYDRA may have wiped my mind, but that was one of the very first things to come back to me, if it was ever truly gone.”

 

Steve’s single laugh was dry, a futile gasp against Bucky’s hair before he went on. “And then one day you decided to buy me breakfast, and lunch after that, and then I was living here, and I was still lying to my friends because I wanted you to feel safe. But they figured it out, because they aren’t stupid, no matter what you say Bucky, and they were worried. And no, Natasha had no right to do what she did, not the first or this last time. But you were going to kill her Bucky, and I couldn’t let you do that, because that meant you were going to have to go away again, and I just got you back. But maybe I should have let you, because you ended up going away anyway, and just leaving me here, like nothing I did mattered. So maybe I should have just let you and dealt with the fall out, if that was what it was going to take to make you feel safe. Because I will always choose you and what makes you feel safe over anything or anyone else. _Always._ ”

 

“You would have hated yourself if you had let me do that,” Bucky finally admitted after a moment.

 

“Yeah well, better that than you disappearing again like you did.” Steve opened his eyes and lifted his head to meet Bucky’s gaze. “So, you tell me Buck, you tell me what’s it gonna to take for you to stay? Do you want me to stop speaking to my friends? Do you want me to leave the Avengers? You tell me and I will promise you that I’ll do it if that’s what it’s going to take for you to believe that _I am with you ‘til the end of the line!_ ”

 

“I want you to watch your own goddamned back!” And there was Bucky’s anger, his protectiveness of Steve adding a new fire to his voice. “Because friends or not Steve, those assholes are _not doing their fucking jobs._ ”

 

“Then stay!” Steve yelled, slamming his fist back into the wall, causing Bucky to flinch. “Because you’re right. No one has ever had my back like you do. You’ve been doing it your whole life and no one is as good at keeping me safe as you. But you gotta stay to do it. You gotta promise me that you’ll stay, because I can’t take it anymore Bucky, you leaving like that. _I can’t._ It makes me sick, and I can’t take it, and I need you to be here so I know that I’m safe.” Bucky was silent as he stared up at Steve, his eyes wide, looking at Steve in a way he never had before, ever, in any of their lives. And Steve, Steve was just exhausted, so exhausted he was trembling with it. Bucky still hadn’t answered him, and Steve had no idea what was going through his mind, or the meaning behind the look in his gaze, but he just couldn’t bear it anymore, and so he closed his eyes and shook his head.

 

And then he felt it. A feeling felt only once, but never forgotten. The soft and gentle touch of the fingertips of Bucky’s left hand, a light and tender stroke running down the column of Steve’s throat.

 

“Look what he did to your neck Stevie,” he said quietly as he followed the line of bruising around Steve’s throat. “I should have shot him twice, because Jesus Stevie, he really hurt you. And nobody ever gets to hurt you like that.”

 

“Then stay Bucky,” Steve whispered back. “Promise me you’ll stay, and never leave again, and no one ever will.”

 

“Yeah, yeah, all right,” Bucky said a moment later, when he had finally lowered his hand from Steve’s neck. But only for a second, before he was reaching out and wrapping his arms around Steve’s shoulders, pulling him in tight. “I’m so sorry I hurt you, Stevie. But I swear to you I will never leave you like that again. I promise Stevie. I promise you. Never again.”

 

And he kept his word. Because from that day forward, Bucky never once left Steve alone, not once, ever again.

 

FIN

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

**END NOTES**

So, before you all decide to come after me with pitchforks and torches to burn my house down, I just wanted to say a few bits here now that we’ve reached the end of The Taming.

First off, I want to extend my never ending thanks to both katherynefromphilly and Merry_rf.

Katheryne was the first person I told when I came up with the idea for the Responsible for What You Tame series, and she has been nothing but amazingly kind and supportive throughout the entire process, putting up with me ranting and raving, and then whining in exhaustion as Steve and Bucky tortured me while I was writing their journey. She writes for the Merlin fandom, and if you are a fan of that show, then you should definitely check her work out, because it is absolutely phenomenal.

Merry_rf was kind enough to agree to beta the monster that was The Taming when I reached out to her, and this story would not be what it was without her extremely generous time and attention to detail. Because of her, there is a lot less comma abuse, spelling errors and weird phrasing. She took my blob of a story and turned it into something cohesive and so much better than it was originally, and there aren’t enough words to thank her for that. She’s a writer herself and her story Whose Cock Is It Anyway? is one of the funniest I’ve ever read, and if you need a story that is both smart and hilarious, I can’t recommend it enough.

***

Secondly, there was a lot of music I listened to for inspiration while I was writing The Responsible for What You Tame series, but there are a few songs that I felt really resonate with The Taming. They are:

Big Love (live) - Fleetwood Mac  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J9fwmKrfZyo

Everybody Wants To Rule The World – Lorde  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=DaVA6sgOpws

The Heart Wants What It Wants – Selena Gomez  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UxV_paz84Mw

Bleeding Love – Leona Lewis  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-nkJQYp1NTg

Ode to Boy – Yaz  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nJD7x-nKPTo

And lastly Sky Full of Song – Florence + the Machine  
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iW_OBtopPfI

And then of course, there is the AMAZING playlist created by the_music_and_the_mirror, which has so many songs that capture perfectly everything I was trying to portray as I wrote his part of Steve and Bucky’s journey. So many beautiful songs:

https://open.spotify.com/user/1224598630/playlist/2llyw55k8vSUxIyIpu1W93?si=7W5D4S93SoqqJChWzUOgqw

***

Finally, when I started writing this story about Bucky and Steve, I knew that it was going to be a series, and that the series would have three parts. The first part, The Hunt, was all about Steve and his desperate pursuit of the best friend he thought dead, culminating with Steve finally finding Bucky. I knew the second part, The Taming, would be about Bucky coming back to Brooklyn, and working on the rowhouse while he focused on his healing and rebuilding his friendship with Steve. I knew it was going to be rough, but I wanted it to focus mostly on Bucky’s healing, and getting him to a place where he was stable and strong enough to stand on his own. Each story was going to be self-contained, with its own mood and feel. The Hunt was going to have a very different feel than The Taming, which was going to have its dark moments, and twists and turns, but also a lot more humor and emotional intensity as Steve and Bucky grow even closer.

Which leads us to Part Three. Yes, there is a part three. In fact, it is already completed and is now with Merry_rf, who has once again generously agreed to help turn my gibberish into a cohesive story. I will start posting it soon. And like both The Hunt and The Taming, this story is going to have a different overall feel. It will continue the ongoing journey of Steve and Bucky, and this time there are going to be a lot more laughs, crack, secrets revealed, old friends showing up, Avengers who decided that they needed a turn on stage (think blond hair and hammers), new characters I hope you’ll come to like, more food, silly fluffiness, angst (oh my god, the angst!), Bucky giving Steve shit, Steve giving it right back, shenanigans, kittens, some twists and turns, and ultimately Stucky.

Because in part three, The Blooming, Bucky finally remembers.

Feel sorry for Steve. So very, very sorry.

(And oh, there may be a crack!fic in the interim before I start posting. For anyone who may be interested, it’s called The Household Accords. **wink**)

***

There’s just one last thing I wanted to say before I end this, and that is to thank each and every one of you. As I was posting every chapter, your comments made me laugh, smile, cry, blush, get through some really rough days, and feel wonderfully overwhelmed by how kind and welcoming this fandom is. There have been debates, jokes, playlists, and discussions about the characters that I would have never had if not for you. There are old friends who have been reading my work since the very first story I posted (I hope you know who you are, my darling, my dear) and new, wonderful friends I have met either on here or who reached out to me on Tumblr, who have become just as deeply cherished, from all over the world. It has been such a wonderful experience, and that’s because of all of you. I could never thank you enough, and I hope to see you all again as I continue the journey to Bucky and Steve’s happy ending. So, once, twice, thrice, thank you, thank you, thank you.

You may now commence with the pillaging and burning down of my house. I’m going to go back to hiding in my bush. =^._.^=

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Dark Places](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16183187) by [Yeneffer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeneffer/pseuds/Yeneffer)
  * [Recommendations](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16283048) by [Yeneffer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeneffer/pseuds/Yeneffer)
  * [The Chase](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17856722) by [Yeneffer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeneffer/pseuds/Yeneffer)
  * [How can you live without him](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18669334) by [Yeneffer](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yeneffer/pseuds/Yeneffer)




End file.
